


Trapped in Paradise

by Darksidekelz



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, ensemble fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-23 14:04:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 47
Words: 217,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3771007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darksidekelz/pseuds/Darksidekelz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Longarm hadn't entered the raffle, but finds himself with the grand prize, regardless.  Trapped on a doomed luxury liner, and coerced into solving a fool's mystery, he finds himself caught in a sea of secrets and lies, the least of which are his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Ship Most Grand

The ship was massive - the kind of luxury liner Blurr never dreamed he'd have a chance to ride in his lifetime.  Its regal red and brilliant golden hull glistened like a beacon in the afternoon sun, standing out against the matte finish of the surrounding buildings.  _The Orion_ , they called it, and it was to be his home for the better part of the next lunar cycle.

Cliffjumper shifted nervously next to him.  "I didn't think it'd be so packed," he muttered.

Indeed, the terminal was practically overflowing with harried bodies running to-and-fro - alike only in their extravagant, well-polished finishes - the mark of the leisure class.

Blurr had always hated crowds himself, but trapped here, with the Cybertronian elite closing in on every side, had him on edge - and he found himself crushed beneath their overwhelming mass.  He let out a strangled grunt.

In front of him, the steadfast form of his superior officer, Longarm Prime, shifted to spare him a glance.  Longarm's presence was the only thing keeping Blurr's feet on the ground, and for that he was grateful.  Even in the chaos of the mob, the Prime remained a picture of serenity, a small frown gracing his thin, white lips.

"The hustle and bustle will subside once we've taken off, surely.  We'll only have to endure for a few cycles more."

"You don't like them either, sir," confirmed Blurr, tongue quick as ever.

Longarm chuckled warmly in response.  "No, agent Blurr, I do not.  But we do what we must."

Cliffjumper snorted, a bit louder than was necessary.  A tall, blue bot with a red face turned to sniff disdainfully at him before continuing on his way.  At least Cliffjumper had the decency to look sheepish, before continuing.  "But this ain't orders, sir!  This is supposed to be a vacation."

"Yes, unfortunately."  Even a mech as patient as Longarm couldn't hide the strain in his voice. 

Blurr had been surprised when Longarm had invited him to his office to explain that'd he'd won the grand prize in The Metroplex office raffle - an all-paid luxury cruise for him and two companions.  He'd been even more surprised when Longarm had invited him to come along.

"But sir," he'd said, thoughts already shifting into high gear, "as flattered as I am that you would choose to invite me out of all of the other agents that you could have chosen, I can't help but feel compelled to deny.  It's nothing personal or anything, but I do have a lot of work to get done - I mean, I'm getting really close to a major breakthrough on the Flipsides case, and I'm not really one for that kind of thing anyway - you know that.  All of those senators and celebrities schmoozing and drinking and - and - and _socializing_!  So if you would allow it sir, I'd rather sit this out.  Unless, of course, you're giving me an order, sir."

Longarm was kind enough to let him finish talking before providing his own response - most bots didn't pay him such regard.  He rose from his desk, and took a few smooth steps towards Blurr, dropping all pretense of formality.  "I wouldn't order you to do something of this nature, agent, but I do wish you would reconsider.  I, more than anyone, know that there is still much work to be done.  I admit to being less than pleased at the situation myself.  But this really is a matter in which I would appreciate the assistance of my best agent."

Blurr couldn't keep the faint pink blush from his cheeks at the compliment.  "That's very kind of you sir."  And then, with scarcely a pause to vent, he leapt to the other topic at hand.  "But at the risk of sounding rude, why would you enter the raffle that you had no interest in winning?"

Longarm stepped closer yet again, until they were mere feet apart - the intensity behind his piercing blue gaze freezing Blurr in place.  "That's just it, agent Blurr.  I didn't enter at all."

Misgivings as to the ominous nature of their winnings aside, Longarm had deemed it best to investigate, and Blurr, ever the faithful agent, was brought along.  Cliffjumper rounded out the trio, though Blurr remained unsure as to the reason for his presence - and did not feel compelled to ask.

"Passengers A-16 to A-42 to the loading bridge.  I repeat -" the bored voice of a femme echoed through the terminal, igniting the shuffling anew, as bots tried to sort out themselves and their belongings.

"A-16.  That's us," said Longarm, tone businesslike as ever.

The line to board moved at a merciful pace, and soon, the trio was being escorted to their suite by a tiny orange bot with a most peculiar speech pattern.

"Down this way lies the Great Hall, with crystal ceilings 100 meters tall.  And up that lift are the lounge and bar, if you get overcharged please don't drive too far."

"Do you think he's doing that on purpose?" Cliffjumper wondered, under his breath.

"What, the rhyming?"  Blurr said, a bit hastily, even for him. 

Cliffjumper stuttered a minute, as his brain module struggled to parse Blurr's words.  Once it had caught up, however, he muttered a short affirmation.  "I mean, who even talks like that?"

"You know, Cliffjumper, that's very rude of you.  Not all bots are in complete control of the manner in which they speak, and even if it _is_ an affectation, it really shouldn't be any of your business anyway.  Let the little guy rhyme if that's what makes him happy - we're hardly in any position to make judgements - or worse, make fun.  Really, I'm kind of disappointed in you."  Even Blurr couldn't help but notice how defensive he sounded.   He'd experienced more than his share of mockery over his own speech impediments, after all.

It was with great horror that he realized the little bot had stopped to gawk at him.  "I mean, let's just get back to the tour," he muttered, sheepishly.

The bot nodded.  "Yes sir, that seems fair.  If you would, please look over there.  That way lies a deck for observation, go when we take off - it's quite the sensation!  Watching the world down below disappear from sight - if I may say so, it's our journey's highlight!"

"Ah yes, that's very well and good.  We'll consider making our way up there, sooner or later," said Blurr, with a touch of insincerity - if he did end up going, it wouldn't be during takeoff.  There was no way the deck wouldn't be overflowing at such a peak time.

"Then that brings me to the last stop on our tour.  And in this case, last is the best, I'm sure!"  He stopped beside a glossy black door, a gold A-16 engraved in its otherwise smooth surface.  "This here is the room in which you will stay.  You can come here to rest and to work and to play!"  And without another word, he held a key card up to the pad next to the door, prompting it to slide open with a soft _swoosh._

The luxury suite was easily three times the size of Blurr's own apartment back home.    Its warm, golden surfaces housed the kind of furniture that even a great lug like Sentinel Prime would find roomy - sofas, desks, chairs, as well as shelves stocked with a small selection of data pads, a wall choc-full of the latest in holographic computers, and the biggest vid-screen he'd ever seen in his life - complete with state-of-the-art sound system for maximum enjoyment.  And this was to say nothing of the two hab-suites and wash-racks separated from the main room.  Cliffjumper actually let loose a strangled sound that was two parts shock, and one part awe.  Longarm, on the other hand, looked inexplicably displeased.

From behind them, the guide shifted, drawing attention back to himself.  "I'll leave you here to explore freely, but if you need something else, call for Wheelie."  With that, the little bot gave a courteous bow and left the room.

"What a strange little fella," Cliffjumper said, sprawling out on the sofa - his small frame didn't even fill half of it.

Blurr, on the other hand, was too restless to relax.  One moment, he stood by the entrance, then, in the shuttering of an optic, in the wash racks, was rifling through the hab suite - on the recharge slab, off the recharge slab, back in the main room, running his fingers over the delicate holomatter keys of the main computer, and then, once satisfied, he moved again to stand by Longarm's side.

The Prime smiled, affectionately.  "Is the room to your liking?"

"Yes, I think it will be sufficient, sir.  It may be large, but that makes it easy to run around in - one might call that a blessing in disguise, if one were so inclined.  And upon close inspection, I found that the recharge slabs _can_ in fact be transformed to accommodate smaller frames, which I suppose is necessary with a clientele of such varying sizes, but remains a nice change from public ferries, if I do say so myself."  And that was it.  The settling-in period was over, as far as Blurr was concerned.  It was time to get back to business.

"So, what now, Longarm, sir?"

Longarm just smiled that all-knowing smile of his, and said, "We wait."

~~~

Take-off had been uneventful - as a matter of fact, Blurr had slept right through it.  Cliffjumper, however, assured him that it had been such a non-event, that they'd already passed through their first space bridge before he even realized that they were off-planet.

The early days of the voyage too, passed with little to make them noteworthy.  Cliffjumper had discovered the ship's bar right away, and immediately afterwards, also discovered that their special tickets granted them unlimited drinks, free of charge.  It had been awhile since Blurr had seen the guy, which was no great sorrow.

Longarm, on the other hand, turned out to have brought his personal computer along for the journey, and thusly spent most of his time on the thing, presumably keeping caught up with work. 

Not to be outdone, Blurr decided that he too should spend his vacation time focused on work.  He hadn't the resources to stay caught up on his own cases, but the raffle mystery was still unresolved.  That would have to do.  After all, for what purpose could someone want Longarm Prime on this ship?

The answer came to him both anticlimactically, and in a manner so blunt, it practically bludgeoned him upside the head.

"Agent Burr?"

Blurr looked up from the (perfectly legal) copy of the passenger manifest he was studying to see none other than the bulky blue form of Sentinel Prime striding towards him, flanked by agent Jazz, and his half-Decepticon jet twins.

"Blurr, sir," he corrected, rising to his feet to salute.

"What?"

"Blurr, sir," Jazz repeated, cool as ever.   Thank Primus for Jazz - Sentinel would be _so_ much harder to deal with without his aid.

Sentinel took the correction in stride.  "Blurr, yeah, whatever.  At ease."  He scrutinized the area around Blurr with a critical optic, even going so far as to peer behind him, as if Blurr could possibly be obscuring someone behind his skinny frame. 

"Longarm's not with you?"

"No sir."

"Irritating.  He's been ignoring my pings since we took off."

That was odd.  Blurr took note of it.  "Well Sir, this _is_ a vacation, isn't it?  Even a workaholic like Longarm needs to take a break sometimes."  He knew better, but wasn't about to let his boss come under fire, least of all from Sentinel, a bot notorious for his lack of restraint.

Sentinel shuttered his optics dumbly, clearly having trouble understanding Blurr's speech patterns.  "Yeah . . .," he trailed off, before shaking his helm, and hopping back into his usual condescending character.  "Well anyway, I suppose I can trust you to relay a message to him."

"Of course sir!"

Sentinel turned his attention on Jazz, and more specifically, the data pad he held in his hands.  "Is this area clean?"

"Squeaky, sir."

"Good."  At that, Sentinel pulled his own data pad from his subspace, passing it on to Blurr, who's optics moved down to read it.

"Ah-ah!  Don't read that!" Sentinel snapped.  "That information's for Longarm's eyes only."

Ever obedient, Blurr obeyed, subspacing the offending pad for delivery.  "Understood, Sir."

Seemingly satisfied, Sentinel moved closer, leaning in next to Blurr's audial, conspiratorially.  Blurr found the situation to be laughable, and annoyingly suspicious-looking to any potential passerby.  However, it was not his place to question authority.

"Now agent, this may come as a surprise to you, but the so-called Metroplex office raffle was fixed."  He all but whispered the last word for maximum dramatic effect.

"You don't say," Blurr couldn't help but reply, hoping that the facetious tone escaped Sentinel's notice.

"Yes, well - it's true."  Nope, dense as ever.  Was the Prime always like this, or was it just in Blurr's presence?  It _must_ have been the latter.  Ultra Magnus wasn't an idiot; he never would've promoted a bot so seemingly-incompetent as Sentinel to the position of head Prime if he wasn't actually fit to fill the position.  Or at least, that was what he hoped.  Times like these really made him doubt.

Sentinel continued.  "I wanted Longarm here to help me with an investigation."

"Longarm, sir?"  _Now_ Blurr was curious.  "Why not one of the agents?  That's what we're here for - or you could have been upfront about it.  Why all of the subterfuge?  Especially since you easily could have ordered him here, sir."

"Uh . . ." Blurr was starting to get really irritated at Sentinel's inability to keep up.  He considered putting in the extra effort to slow down, but ultimately decided that it wasn't worth it.

"Look, I don't need your lip, agent, and I don't appreciate your babbling.  I didn't even catch half of what you said.  But know that Longarm's the best of the best, and I want him here with me."  Sentinel rose to his full height, looming over Blurr as if his bulky frame and massive chin were even remotely intimidating.  "So be a dear, and invite him to dinner with me tonight.  I won't take 'no' for an answer."  Sentinel's words were gruff, patronizing even, but Blurr was in no position to refuse.

"Yes Sir!  I will relay your message right away Sir!"

"Good," Sentinel sneered, before continuing down the corridor, taking his posse with him.

Now _there_ was something to ponder over.  Sentinel made no secret of underhandedly forcing Longarm's hand, but to what end, Blurr wasn't so certain.  What kind of investigation was so important, that the presence of the head of Intelligence himself was required?

Blurr glanced over the passenger manifest again, unable to help but notice the number of senators on the ship - not unusual in itself, and yet, of the senators on board, all but two were associated with shady dealings and accusations of corruption.  A funny coincidence?  A trend unique to the position?  Or a clue to Sentinel's investigation?

A question for another time, perhaps.  For now, there were more pressing matters to attend to; he'd get back to investigating later.  With a shake of his head, he subspaced the datapad, and instead opened up his comm. 

"Longarm speaking."

"Agent Blurr here, Sir.  I've got a message for you - from Sentinel Prime!"

A pause.  And then, "Let me hear it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I admit to not knowing exactly where this will end up, but it should be fun, nonetheless. I fully expect there to be a lot of violence in the future, but I'm on the fence about shipping. We'll see how it goes (though Shock/Blurr is likely enough that I've tagged it)
> 
> Anywho, I'll adjust tags as needed.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!


	2. The Shadow in the Corridor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz has obligations to fulfill, whether he likes it or not. But perhaps the day won't be a total waste.

Sentinel Prime didn't trust the Intelligence Agency - Jazz knew that much.  And he even understood it to a degree.  It was, after all, an organization of spies.  It was easy to imagine a that bot with as much notoriety as Sentinel lived in constant fear of his own secrets being discovered, and in his position, he knew for a fact that there were eyes everywhere - why shouldn't they be watching him?

Still, Jazz couldn't help but feel that tailing its members around the ship was a bit unnecessary.  He was confident in his ability to not get caught, of course, but these weren't his average targets.  He was working with professionals now, and the penalty for discovery was far greater than whatever it was that Sentinel thought he was accomplishing.  _Keep on the lookout for suspicious activity_ , indeed.

And yet, as troublesome as humoring the every whim the Prime could be, it was even more trouble to argue with him - Jazz had spent far too long working himself into Sentinel's good graces to risk losing face now.  And so it was that he found himself in the ship's bar, sharing drinks with Longarm Prime's little red secretary.

Longarm himself, had sequestered himself away in his room for the duration of his stay thus far, and Blurr was simply too fast to tail with much success.  Stumbling across him earlier that morning hadn't been a complete accident, but was still a lucky turn of fate, and not likely to happen again.  Cliffjumper, however, was predictable, chatty, and not half so well-trained.  It was easy to get desired information from him - get enough drinks in the guy, and it all just spilled out with very little prompting on Jazz's part.

"The drinks here are amazing!" he said, not for the first time.  "Gonna be hard goin' back to normal engex after this elixer."

"I feel you there," Jazz replied.  "That's why we gotta enjoy it while it lasts, yeah?"

"Yeah," the little bot agreed, finishing off his stein.  "Bartender, another Nova Cronal!" 

The bartender, a small white bot named Swerve, took the empty stein, before quickly replacing it with a full one.

Cliffjumper sat contemplating his drink for a moment before he said, quite out of the blue, "I wish the others felt the same, y'know?"

 "How so?"

Cliffjumper shifted, uncomfortably.  "Well, you know.  Longarm and even Blurr are always so busy with their work - I mean, we came here to _get away_ from it all, didn't we?  What are you even doing, spending every waking moment buried behind your computer - what's even so important that you can't take your calls?  I know, he forwards them to me!

"And Blurr?  Guy's always zipping about here and there and everywhere, can't stop by the room for even two seconds, unless he's reporting to Longarm.  Like seriously, what even kind of business could you _possibly_ be investigating right now?  There's nothing here!  No work, no orders - I'd have known!  It makes no sense!  What, you're too good to drink with your old buddy, Cliffjumper?!"

He slumped forward, until his helm was resting on the counter.  "I mean, we're all on vacation together, so why is it that I gotta relax alone?"

"I couldn't tell you, man," Jazz muttered, contemplating his own drink.  It wasn't so far divorced from his own situation, really.  Unlike the little bot, he _was_ on duty, but Sentinel was hardly good drinking company, and while he liked the twins just fine, they weren't exactly friends.  He chuckled deeply before offering his own glass to Cliffjumper.  "Here, try this."

Cliffjumper didn't bother asking what it was - a testament to how far-gone he'd become already - before downing the rest of Jazz's drink in one great gulp.

"Y'know Jazz?  You're an all right guy," he said, returning an unfocused gaze to his own drink.

"So I've been told," Jazz laughed, then gave Cliffjumper a solemn look.  "You gonna be all right gettin' back?"

The boisterous cackle Cliffjumper let loose told Jazz all he needed to know."

"I'll be - I'll be fine," he slurred.  "I'm just gettin' started up here!"  The next moment, he was quite suddenly waving at a passing femme.  "Hey!  C'mon over here, Sweetheart!  Drinks on me!"  Swerve shot him a glare from behind the bar, but failed to give any further protestation.

There was no universe in which Jazz could see this situation ending in any way that could be described as good, but Sentinel was expecting his report, and showing up shit-faced was out of the question.  Besides, if worse came to worst, one of the other Intel guys would come pick the little drunkard up.

"Have fun, man.  Let's do this again some time."  Jazz pushed away from the bar, acknowledging Cliffjumper's enthusiastic goodbye with a lazy wave of his hand.

He hadn't learned much from the exchange, but it was still more than he'd been expecting.  As best he could tell, Longarm was trying to keep up with work - though the fact that he was refusing to take calls - while not suspicious in itself, was certainly worth noting.  As for Agent Blurr - Jazz couldn't tell what he was up to - his own bet was staving off boredom, but Sentinel would doubtless see it as shady.  That was just the kind of bot he was.

Jazz was stirred from his musings by a movement out of the corner of his optic.  Something had zipped by at the end of the hall, too fast to get a good look at it.  Whatever it was, it had absconded off into no-man's land, where passengers were not allowed, and the deft way in which it moved left Jazz certain that it was no member of the crew.  This could be bad.

Within an instant, he was transformed and racing down the hall, as fast as he dared without risk of alerting the shady stranger, catching brief glimpses of the bot just as he'd turn a corner.  Corridor after corridor of silent rooms passed him by in a blur - crew's quarters and storage closets, and in the distance, he could hear the hum of the ship's engines grow louder and louder.  He was beginning to get an idea of where his quarry was headed, and when he saw the figure dip into the suspiciously-open doorway, tall enough for even a large Decepticon to clear with ease, his suspicions where confirmed.  Jazz reverted to root-mode while still in motion, leaping through the air and skidding to a silent halt just outside the room.  He waited half a klik, listening for any sign that he'd been noticed, but it was hard to hear anything over the roar coming from within the room.  Once he reasoned it was safe, he peered around the doorway.

His eye was drawn immediately to the engines - massive beasts of machinery, glowing red hot under the intensity of their own operation.  The rest of the room, however, remained strangely devoid of life.  No crew, no trespasser, nothing.  It was evident that he had been discovered.  He drew his nunchaku, just in case, and began to scour every corner, nook, and cranny, until all potential hiding places (of which Jazz had to admit, were quite few) had been overturned.  There was no one here.  The intruder was just gone.  Jazz could think of a small number of ways that another bot could have given _him_ the slip, but none of them boded well.  Was it a stowaway?  A thief?  Or something more sinister . . . ?

"What are you doing in here?!" a shrill voice squawked from the doorway. 

Jazz turned calmly towards the speaker with a lazy smile on his face, nunchaku promptly subspaced, and hands in the air in an effort to placate the stranger.  He recognized him, if only barely.  Small and young, with a bright yellow finish - this was one of the crew members.  Honeybee, wasn't it?

"No sweat.  I'm Elite Guard," he waved a hand to indicate the insignia on his chest.  "I got clearance, so it's all good."

The little bot's optics lit up when they fell upon the emblem, trance-like.  A fan, huh?  That was lucky.  Unfortunately, he was quick to come to his senses, and his starry eyes grew hard, suspicious.  "Yeah?  Well, how do I know you're telling the truth!  It's not _that_ hard to fake a symbol."

Jazz shrugged.  "I can get confirmation from Sentinel Prime himself, if that's what you need."

Honeybee (was that really his name?) looked mortified at the suggestion.  "Sentinel Prime?!  No, no, no!  That's all right!  I'll - uh, I'll let you get back to whatever it was you were doing in here then."  He made an about-face, and got as far as two steps into the hall, before he came skittering back into the room, a nervous grimace in place.  "Just - uh - just don't let my boss see you.  I'll get in so much trouble!"

Jazz grinned his lazy grin and stepped closer.  "Don't sweat it.  I was actually on my way out."  The little yellow bot froze as Jazz passed him by, his EM field loudly radiating both fear and admiration.  Cute.

"Actually, before I go, I gotta know.  What was your name?"

"B-Bumblebee, Sir!" the bot said, standing straighter.

"Ah, that was it.  Bumblebee.  Of course."  And he walked out, chuckling. 

He may have been in good humor, but even so, he didn't fail to notice the shadow move out of the corner of his optic - an entity different from Bumblebee, who was gliding giddily back into the engine room.  But of course, when he turned to look back, the figure was gone.  He gave the corridor one last scrutinizing look-about before transforming to alt-mode and heading back towards the upper decks. 

There was undoubtedly something suspicious going on, but he would have to deal with it later.  Sentinel was calling.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with twice as many mini-bots!
> 
> Also, do forgive any issues with formatting (and please do bring them to my attention, if you are so inclined). I'm still getting used to this interface.


	3. Keep Your Feet on the Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bumblebee wants to be in the Elite Guard more than anything, but his aspirations for the future may very well interfere with his life in the present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize in advance for my attempt at Jetstorm's accent.

It was to be Bumblebee's first voyage, and to be honest, he was a little nervous.  It wasn't that he was unqualified - of course not!  After all, he was the fastest thing on four wheels, brave, clever, and handsome to boot!  He was prime Elite Guard material in the eyes of all but his Minor at boot camp - which was a time in his life he very much liked to pretend never happened.

No, he was certainly qualified to be a ship's engineer - that much was obvious.  But his best friend, Bulkhead, had stuck his neck out to land him this job, and the last thing Bumblebee wanted to do was let him down.

He knew next to nothing about spaceships, let alone their engines, but the work was easy enough.  _The Orion_ boasted (and this was a secret now, between its designer, Wheeljack, and those who worked in the engine room) a new kind of engine, technically still a prototype, but he'd been assured that extensive testing had proven it to be perfectly safe.

Bulkhead called them 'quantum engines,' or something equally ridiculous.  All Bumblebee knew, was that they were very large, burned very hot, and mostly did their own thing, with zero effort on his part.  His entire job consisted of babysitting the machines to make sure they didn't do anything unusual (they never did), and occasionally he had to open the hatch on the front to check that the interior components were all in the right place, before they made any kind of jump through space.  It was child's play, to be sure, but it would look damn good on a resume.

All in all, it was a good life, if not a little boring.  Sometimes, Bumblebee couldn't help but wish for something bad to happen.  Not only would it bring some excitement to this otherwise monotonous locale, but it would present him with a unique opportunity to prove his worth.  He heard that Sentinel Prime was on board.  Maybe he'd be so impressed, that he'd induct Bumblebee into the Elite Guard on the spot.

His wish came to pass within a few days' time, though it wasn't immediately apparent.

He and Bulkhead were on duty together, as was typically the case.  Somehow, in the busy schedule of keeping an eye on the engines, they had found time to sit down for a game of Fullstasis.

"I think I saw someone the other day," Bumblebee commented, all but shouting over the roar of the engines as he lay down two Fuzors, a sure bet to beat whatever Bulkhead could throw at him.  "You know, acting shifty?"

"Really?" Bulkhead replied with a childlike interest.  "How so?"  He casually dropped a Six Combiner Set like it was nothing.  Bumblebee cringed, letting out a high whine, before passing Bulkhead a large chunk of his energon tokens.

"It was all in the optics," he continued, trying his darndest to pretend that he wasn't upset.  "He wasn't really doing anything weird, but one look at those optics of his, and I could tell he was up to no good."

"Oh wow!" said Bulkhead, starting a new round by laying down one Action Master pair.  Bumblebee could beat that, no problem.

"I mean, come _on_!  The only mechs who wear visors are the ones with something to hide."  He reviewed his hand and grimaced.  _How_ did he have nothing to beat the Action Masters?  He laid down a lone Nebulon, hoping Bulkhead wouldn't call his bluff.

Bulkhead called his bluff.

"Gah!  I hate this game," Bumblebee griped, dropping his hand to the ground in defeat. 

"Is it 'cause I always win?"

"No comment," he sniffed, reluctantly parting with the rest of his token pile.  "Next time _I_ pick the game."

"Sure, sure," Bulkhead laughed, then paused to check his internal chronometer.  "Well, it looks like we got time for another.  What'll it be?"

Bumblebee thought it over.  " _Cyberninja Gladiator_."

"That one?  _Really_?" Bulkhead responded, shuddering.

Bumblebee shot him back a cocky grin.  "You said I could pick the game."

"Fine, fine," he shook his massive hand dismissively.  "But we can't even play that game.  You need data tablets for that, don't you?"

"So run back to the room real quick and grab one.  I won't tell."

Bulkhead still seemed hesitant.  He needed further needling.

"Look, how long will you even be gone for?  Like, a few kliks.  No one's gonna come in during that time, and nothing's gonna happen.  It'll be fine."

"If you say so," Bulkhead said, unconvinced.

"I do!"  Bumblebee replied, irritation creeping into his voice.  "Now come on!"  he grabbed his friend's hand in a comical effort to pull a bot at least four times his size to his feet.  Bulkhead was even nice enough to help him.  "Don't waste anymore time!  Go go go!"

"Alright, alright.  I'm goin'."  Bulkhead waddled out the door and out of sight.  Good.  Finally a moment to himself.

Bumblebee liked Bulkhead, quite a bit, but that didn't mean he liked sharing every minute of his existence with the guy.  The two of them worked together, ate together - they even shared the same quarters!  It was one of the very few times in his life that Bumblebee could recall being thankful for his tiny size.  The cabins were hardly one-size-fits-all; a bigger bot would have been squashed. 

Now,  this rare moment of solitude was perhaps the first time since he'd set foot on the ship that he'd truly had a moment alone.

With a furtive look around, he grabbed a few of the tokens from the top of Bulkhead's pile, and subspaced them.  It wasn't like Bulkhead needed the extra energon anyway.  Besides, it was all in good fun.  With that thought firmly in his processor, he reached for another.  One more chip couldn't hurt . . .

A thud from the direction of the door sent his engine lurching high in his chest, and his body along with it.  Bumblebee crashed right into the pile of tokens, spilling a thousand little chips all across the floor.

"Ah-hah!  I meant to do that!" he squawked to the air, then looked around to confirm that no one had bore witness to his blunder.  Nope.  Still alone.

That's when the thought struck him.  What if, just maybe, that sound had been caused by someone up to no good?  This was his opportunity!

"Hold on, N'er-do-wells!  You're in for a surprise!"  And then he was speeding down the passage in alt mode, engine revving with glee.  He _so_ had this.

Miles flew by in a matter of minutes, as he traveled farther and farther from his starting point.  _I'll find him any minute,_ he told himself.  _Just around this next corner here._

But his phantom target wasn't around the next corner.  Or the next, or the next.  Deep down, a small part of him was beginning to doubt that there even was a target - maybe his audial circuits had glitched - maybe Bulkhead had knocked something over down the hall.  But stubbornly, he pressed on - refusing to give up his chance for glory.

He hadn't even realized he'd made his way to the passenger decks until he was plowing straight into some poor fellow.

Lucky for him, his victim was of a sturdy build, otherwise he really _would've_ been in serious trouble.  As it was, the tall blue bot looked down at him, his optics obscured by his bright cyan visor, and a wide smile on his blue-grey lips.

"Oh Primus!  I am so sorry," Bumblebee panicked, reverting to root mode in a disheveled pile on the floor.  His processor ached something fierce, and his left servo wasn't responding to commands in a timely fashion; he'd have to go see Ratchet at some point.  "I wasn't looking where I was going and - augh!"  He threw up his good arm in exasperation, before crawling to his feet to get closer to the other mech's level.  Even so, Bumblebee barely came up to his chestplate.  "Why were you just standing around in the middle of the floor, anyway?!  Folks gotta get by, you know?  Of course someone was going to bump into you sooner or later!"

A small crowd began to form - gawkers, the lot of them!  Though Bumblebee was beginning to realize, with a sense of dread, that any one of the onlookers had more than enough money and influence to ensure that he'd never work again, let alone have the chance to join the Elite Guard, should they so desire it.  He had to play this carefully.

"I was to waiting for my brother," said the bot, in an accent that Bumblebee couldn't place.  "But now I am in collision.  Is very exciting day!"

Bumblebee shuttered his optics dumbly.  "Wait, what?"

"Oh dear," sniffed a small yellow femme.  "What's this rubbish doing up here?"

" _Rubbish?!_   Say that to my face!"

She shook her head with a tut, before turning to the blue bot.  "Do you want me to take care of that for you?"

The stranger merely tilted his head.  "Take care of?  What does mean?"

"Actually," Bumblebee began, taking a few tentative steps backwards.  "I think I've - uh - caused enough trouble for one day.  I'll just, er, show myself out."

The femme narrowed her large blue eyes in contempt.  "Yes, I think you'd better."

The tall blue mech looked between the two, before his gaze settled on Bumblebee.  "Oh?  Leaving so soon?  Goodbye then!"  He waved his farewell, but Bumblebee was already gone.

That had been mortifying.  He'd broken at least five rules in the past few kliks, and even worse, there were witnesses to report it.  Optimus was gonna kill him for this.  It was all he could do to hope that the Elite Guard never found out.

And to top off his unlucky afternoon, someone had snuck into the engine room while he was out.

"What are you doing in here?!" he squawked, dignity out to lunch.  The last thing he needed was some lost idiot mucking about with the engines. 

But he wasn't some lost idiot.  He was Elite Guard, he'd said as much himself!  Smooth-talking, quick-witted, and impossibly cool, not to mention handsome, with his chiseled jaw and flashy black-and-white paint job - this bot was everything Bumblebee wanted to be!

He had to act cool.  This could be his way in.  "Yeah?  Well, how do I know you're telling the truth!  It's not  _that_  hard to fake a symbol."  Too cool!  Too cool!  Why did he say that?

The Elite Guardsmech responded in an appropriately smooth manner, but all Bumblebee could think about was how he might get his voice to sound like that.  He'd have to start practicing right away.  Oh wait!  The guy had asked him a question.

"Sentinel Prime?!" he repeated, trying to drop his voice half-an-octave, keep his tone even, chill.  If he hadn't been so flustered, he might've even succeeded.  "No, no, no!  That's all right!  I'll - uh, I'll let you get back to whatever it was you were doing in here then."  Good.  Now he just had to get out of here before this guy started to think he was an idiot.  No, wait a minute! 

Bumblebee stepped back into the room.  "Just - uh - just don't let my boss see you.  I'll get in so much trouble!"

The white mech smiled, and Bumblebee's processor forced itself into reboot.  One of his heroes - one of his handsome, _cooler-than-was-physically-probable_ heroes had acknowledged him.  He might as well get his badge re-painted right now.  Look out, Elite Guard!  Bumblebee was joining your ranks!

"Actually, before I go, I gotta know.  What was your name?"

Whatever happened after that was a mystery to Bumblebee.  Clearly, the stranger had left, and at one point, Bulkhead came back with the tablets, griping about how he'd had to tear apart the room to find them, but Bumblebee barely noticed.  He couldn't even get his processor into _Cyberninja Gladiator_ enough to beat Bulkhead, and somehow, he didn't care.  Bumblebee was on cloud nine, and nothing was gonna drag him back down.

Well, almost nothing.

He answered his comm on the third ping, forgetting to check the identity of his caller.

"Optimus Prime to Bulkhead and Bumblebee."

"This is Bumblebee."  His voice strained under the effort of saying his own name.

"Bulkhead here," Bulkhead added, clearly in the dark as to why their boss might be calling.

Optimus's voice was calm and even, but there was a hard edge to it that belied his anger.  "I have received reports of a crew member, a small yellow bot with frame type 65356-9292-346, driving recklessly through the passenger decks at 00:15:37, standard time."

"Oh!" Bumblebee squeaked.  "Man, what a funny coincidence.  It couldn't have been me though!  I've been here, y'know, on duty!"

He could practically hear Optimus rolling his optics.  "They say you ran over a member of the Elite Guard."

"What?! _That guy_ was Elite Guard too?!"  He realized his mistake the moment it had passed his lips.  "I mean -"

"Bumblebee," Optimus groaned.  "What were you thinking, leaving your post like that?  And Bulkhead - you just let him walk out?"

"Uh . . ."  Bulkhead had the face of a turbofox in headlights.

"I expected better of you."

"I'm so sorry, sir!  It will never happen again."  Bulkhead was actually rattling under the pressure.  The sight sent Bumblebee back to regretting his earlier actions.  He hated to see his best friend like this.

"It wasn't his fault, sir!  He wasn't even in the -" No wait, that was not the right thing to say.

"What was that?"

"Uh . . ." Of course, Bumblebee's mouth would fail him when he most needed it.  Bulkhead's expression had changed to one of pure murder.  Bumblebee shot him an apologetic smile.  "What I meant to say was -"

"No.  I don't want to hear it," Optimus interrupted.  "The two of you are in enough trouble as it is.  Ironhide and Wasp are coming to relieve you.  Once they arrive, I want you to report to my office immediately.  Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes sir," they said in unison.

"Good.  Optimus out."

"Well," said Bumblebee, once his boss had hung up.  " _That_ could have gone better."

Bulkhead said nothing, which was entirely unlike him.  It made Bumblebee nervous.

"Look, I'm sorry for outing you there.  That was my bad.  But hey - I mean - everything's gonna be all right, yeah?  Optimus may be a hard-aft, but he's fair.  It's not like he'll kick us off the ship, right?"  He chuckled, trying to lighten the mood.

The look Bulkhead gave him was anything but light. 

"Oh, come on.  I'll treat you to some nice engex once we're out."

"Bumblebee," Bulkhead murmured, barely audible over the engines.

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was fast, wasn't it?
> 
> I totally didn't go into this intending for Bumblebee to be crushing on Jazz, but here we are. That's what I love about writing stories like this.


	4. Dining With the Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shockwave just wants to be left alone. Sentinel Prime has other ideas.

Shockwave was displeased.  No.  _Longarm_ was displeased.  Shockwave was livid, and more than a little nervous.  He was a careful bot, and Sentinel Prime, a fool.  It was impossible to even contemplate his secret being discovered.  Still, he couldn't fathom this cruise being arranged simply for the purpose of investigating ne'er-do-wells in person.  Sentinel clearly required his presence for some reason, and if that reason came anywhere near the truth, then the Prime would have to be dealt with.

His only mercy came from the fact that he wasn't completely alone in this endeavor.  Agent Blurr was as loyal a subordinate as one could ask for, and clever to boot (at least in matters that didn't concern his boss).  His presence on this cruise quite worked out in Shockwave's favor - he got to keep his favorite little subordinate from needlessly progressing with his own cases, while simultaneously providing himself with an ally, should one be proven necessary.  Blurr would take Longarm's word over Sentinel's every time, and that was as good a start as any. 

Cliffjumper, on the other hand - well, if Shockwave was to be working anyway, then he may as well bring his secretary along.

His comm pinged.  Sentinel, for the third time this day.  He knew he was only delaying the inevitable interrogation, but so long as he could get away with the _I'm on vacation_ excuse, he was going to take advantage of it.  He forwarded the call to Cliffjumper, and got back to work - well, as best he could anyway.

Being out of the office made maintaining secure contact with Megatron an impossibility, but there were still reports to edit, missions to assign, and information to gather, for when this nightmare of a vacation was finally over.  It left him little time to relax.

Another ping.  Cliffjumper this time.  What did _he_ want?

"Cliffjumper to Longarm Prime."

"Longarm speaking."

"Sentinel wants to - uh, to talk to you sir."  His words were slurred, and the rather audible sound of merry voices in the background left little question as to Cliffjumper's current whereabouts.  Shockwave sighed.

"Have you told him I'm not taking any business calls at the moment?"

"Well, yes sir, but uh - well, he's gettin' real persistent."

What an obnoxious oaf.  "Did he say what he wanted?"

There was a long pause as Cliffjumper presumably slogged through his drunken thoughts.  "Um.  I think he was asking you to . . . dinner?"

"How romantic."

He rolled Longarm's optics at Cliffjumper's fit of boisterous laughter.  "That -" Snicker.  "That was a good one, sir!"

"I'm glad you're amused," Longarm said without humor.  "But let's not lose focus."

"Uh - yes sir!"  Another muddled pause, and then, "So what do I tell Sentinel, sir?"

"The same you've been telling him.  I'm not taking business calls."

"Yes - uhh, yes sir!  Cliffjumper out!"

Shockwave let out a soft growl.  If Sentinel's paranoia didn't get the best of him, then Cliffjumper's incompetence surely would.  Perhaps he'd made a mistake in bringing the little Autobot.  Clearly _he_ wasn't going to be getting any work done. 

But there _was_ work to be done, and hopefully that would be the last of the interruptions for now.  On the whole, Shockwave wasn't a high-strung bot, but he was in an unfamiliar situation - one where he had no knowledge nor control, and it was doing its damndest to push him to his breaking point.  All of this was exacerbated by the fact that he couldn't reveal his true form, even for an astrosecond.  What he wouldn't have given to stretch his arms, to not have to focus on tedious facial expressions, to speak in his own voice, behave in his own manner - to be himself, in short.  But it was too dangerous.  He wouldn't risk exposure, least of all in such unfamiliar territory.

The next comm came less than a cycle later, much to his irritation, but seeing the name of the caller calmed his nerves, at least a little. Blurr would certainly have something relevant to say.

"Longarm speaking"

"Agent Blurr here, Sir.  I've got a message for you - from Sentinel Prime."

Of course he did.  The stubborn Prime was _determined_ to be a thorn in his side for the duration of the voyage, wasn't he?  And he'd taken to using _Blurr_ now, in order to get to him?  The nerve!  He could hardly ignore the message without arousing suspicion, and a suspicious Blurr was the last thing he wanted right now. 

"Let me hear it."

"Well sir, I was out investigating the ship as I've taken to doing lately, since I've not much else to do, when who should I run into but Sentinel Prime?"

Shockwave was unsurprised by the development.  He'd known Sentinel was on the ship, after all.  But Longarm hadn't.  He'd have to respond accordingly. 

"I suspected that might be the case.  This whole affair had his name written all over it."

"Of course someone as wise as you would figure it out!  I'd expect nothing less from _you_ , Sir!" Blurr gushed.  "That's why _you're_ a Prime, after all!  But anyway," he changed subjects without missing a beat, "Sentinel is holding some kind of dinner this evening, and he's requested your presence."

"Any idea as to why?"

"He says that he has a case that he wants you to investigate personally."

Shockwave bristled at that.  The investigation, was of course, a ruse - there was no other explanation.  Longarm was a good agent, yes, but he'd earned his position by sculpting himself into the kind of leader he knew the Autobots wanted - blindly loyal, unquestioning, willing and able to follow orders, and, when that failed, eliminating the competition.  He was by no means the best agent, and Sentinel knew it - there was a reason he'd never made the Elite Guard, after all.  If Sentinel had gone out of his way to arrange for Longarm's presence, then it was as Shockwave feared - he was under suspicion.

"Is that so?" was what he said.  "Seems like a waste to me.  This sort of thing is much more up your alley, Agent."

"I thought so too, sir.  But he wanted you.  Set this whole thing up for it.  Seems a little weird, Sir, if you ask me, which I suppose you didn't."

"Hmm," Shockwave pondered, stalling for time.  He doubted that Blurr would deem him worthy of whatever suspicion Sentinel had cast on him, but it was best to let the agent steer the conversation to a rational explanation on his own.  "Weird indeed."

"If I may, Sir?"  Never one to disappoint.

"Yes?"

"I've been investigating, and I believe I've had a few insights as to what Sentinel is after."

Was that so?  "Proceed."

"Well, when I noticed the strangely high number of senators on the ship who have been associated with corruption - blackmail, extortion, un-convicted murders, controversies, shady research practices, and so on and so forth, my initial thought was that Sentinel believes one or more Decepticon spies to be among them, which would've been stupid, as we've obviously investigated these targets already and found nothing but your run-of-the-mill political corruption."  Blurr sounded bothered by the thought.  How sweet.  It must've been hard to be such an optimist in his position. Most of the upper-level agents were either resigned to the way things were, or corrupt themselves.  It was rare to find an Autobot so troubled by his own people.  Shockwave rather liked that about Blurr.

"So then, I got to thinking, Sentinel is stubborn, headstrong, and paranoid to boot.  I wonder if he doesn't want us nearby because our department is under investigation?"

Shockwave paused for another moment, this time to make sure that Blurr was finished speaking.  "I fear you may be right," he said, once he felt certain it was his turn to speak.  "Sentinel is a fool, but a dangerous one."

"Do you suppose this is a test then?"

"It seems that way."

"Then what should we do?"

Shockwave thought it over.  What action would be least suspicious?  "We humor him for now.  I'll go to his dinner, you should continue to act as you've been.  We'll not give him any reason to suspect us further."

"Understood, Sir!"

"I'll update you once new information becomes available.  Oh, and keep an eye on Cliffjumper, will you?  I don't need him causing any unnecessary commotion.  Sentinel is sure to latch on to that."

"Yes Sir!"

" Longarm out."

Well, that didn't go half-badly.  Blurr was sharp, but the little darling had (not unpredictably) failed to consider that Sentinel might _actually_ be on to something.  Though that didn't mean the thought hadn't crossed his mind.  It would be best to tread carefully for now.  Amongst the Autobots, even his closest friend could turn foe at the slightest provocation.  If Blurr found out enough to be dangerous, then he'd simply have to be disposed of.   But somehow, Shockwave couldn't help but feel an unwanted twinge of pity at that thought.  It probably wouldn't come to that anyway.

For now, it was time to have a conversation he really wasn't looking forward to.  He opened up his comm and pinged Sentinel.

 

~~~

 

Sentinel's quarters were large - certainly larger than Shockwave's, and much better-furnished - delicate mesh rugs that shaped themselves to his pedes, gold-framed mirrors with intricate detail, and most flagrant, a crystal chandelier dangling from the ceiling.  It was enough to make his tanks churn.

He sat opposite Sentinel at a table large enough for eight, though Jetfire and Jetstorm remained the only other bots in the room.  They each stood at attention along the wall to Sentinel's back, framing the Prime, and making Shockwave feel like he was being interrogated rather than dined. 

He surveyed his options on the table before him - the finest high-grade energon from Iacon, sweet ores and oils imported all the way from the colonies, even a few sensory chips that were almost certainly not legal.  After much deliberation, he helped himself to a cube of the high grade.

"Good choice," Sentinel said, likewise pouring a cube for himself.  "Though the Heart of Cybertron right there is to die for.  You really ought to give it a try."

"I admit, I've never taken much joy from the act of eating."

"Is that so?" Sentinel said with a smug smirk.  "What a shame."  He popped a silvery ore straight into his mouth, the crunching sounds it produced making Shockwave cringe.  Longarm's face, however, remained serene as ever.

"Sir, if I may?"

"Yeah?" Sentinel responded, little bits of ore escaping his mouth.

"You have, rather insistently, requested my presence here with you, both tonight and on this ship.  I was, I admit, a little-perturbed at first, but it's clear that you are not going to leave me in peace until you've said your share, so please, I would like to know what I'm doing here."

Shockwave performed admirably as the beleaguered assistant - frustrated?  Yes.  Tired?  Yes.  But ultimately falling to Sentinel's superior will.  It always helped to stoke Sentinel's ego.  It made him confident , arrogant, and by extension, more likely to slip up.

Sentinel wiped some crumbs from his lips, that punchable smirk steadfastly in place.  "You don't beat around the bush, do you?  But that's what I like about you, Longarm.  Always ready to get to work."  He frowned thoughtfully, scratching at his broad chin.  "Too ready, actually.  When's even the last time you've taken a day off?"

So that was how it was going to be.  Sentinel, rather ironically in this case, was going to make him work to get his answers.  How irritating.

"My job is my life, sir.  I fear I wouldn't know what to do with myself should I take time off." 

"Clearly," Sentinel laughed, though it was as fake as Longarm's persona.  "I swear, you're the _only_ bot in the Metroplex who didn't enter that damned raffle.  Just _had_ to make things difficult for me."  His cheery mask disappeared abruptly, replaced by a more menacing take on his usual smirk.  "But I can't help but notice that your performance has suffered for it."

"I . . . beg your pardon?"  This was certainly news to Shockwave.  He was, of course, editing the reports his agents sent to him, removing the most damning of evidence, but he was always careful to produce results - a grunt's location here, an uncovered scheme there - acceptable losses, but wins for the Autobots nonetheless.  There should've been nothing for Sentinel to complain about.

"It should be obvious, Longarm!  When was the last time you even fleshed a Con out of hiding?"

"Two lunar cycles ago.  Spyglass, if I recall."

"And none since?" 

The _nerve_ of this insect!  "Sir, with all due respect, the Decepticon presence on Cybertron is negligible at best, and it's even more difficult to find them off-planet.  I have a few key agents still rooting out spies and sleepers, but I've found it more prudent, as of late, to keep our focus on internal affairs.  There is a lot of corruption that -"

"Yes, this is what I'm talking about!" Sentinel interrupted.  "You've got eyes on the Decepticons, and eyes on us, so how is it you haven't seen?"

Shockwave was growing tired of this game.  "Seen, sir?" 

"There's a Decepticon right in our very midst!"

Shockwave's claws tensed instinctively, ready to attack should need be - but he restrained himself.  This was not an opportune moment - not with witnesses in the room.  And while he could easily take Sentinel in a fight, he was less certain of his ability to win once the Jet Twins were added to the mix.  He unclenched his fist, glad that it was under the table and out of sight.  The chances of Sentinel knowing his true identity were slim to none anyway.  He'd just have to let this situation play out, and devise a contingency plan, just in case.

"What do you mean sir?"

"On this ship, Longarm.  There's a Decepticon spy on this ship."

Shockwave took a moment to scrutinize that vague statement.  He'd seen the passenger manifest, the crew as well - he knew the identity of every bot on this ship.  If any of them _were_ Decepticons, then they were unimportant enough to not even ping his radar, himself excluded, of course.

"You sound certain."

"Of course I am!"  Sentinel snapped.  "I invited them myself!"

What?

"What?"

"I don't know how your guys missed this one - if you overlooked it or what, but a few weeks back, Master Yoketron, you know, the guy in charge of the protoforms, went missing."

"I was aware."  He'd heard of the event, of course, and had a small list of suspects he was investigating (both officially and not), but it was hardly some grand Decepticon conspiracy, so much as the work of a common thug, or the purse strings behind him.

"And your guys still haven't found anything." 

It wasn't a question, but Shockwave felt compelled to answer nonetheless.  "We do have a few leads, but nothing conclusive."

"This is what I'm talking about!"  Sentinel groaned, leaning back in his chair.  "You're losing your touch.  This would've been solved within days back when you first started."

"You believe the Decepticons are responsible?" Shockwave asked, ignoring the dig at his competence.

"Who else?  He guards the protoforms, Longarm.  Do you know what a Con could do with those?"

"I have considered it."

"And you don't think that motive enough?"

"I think it would be quite brazen of them to attempt.  There are, however, some senators I wouldn't put it past, if you'll excuse my boldness."

"Finally, we're on the same page!  Did Agent Blurr give you that tablet?"

"Yes sir, but forgive me, I haven't had the chance to look it over yet.  I've been preoccupied with my own business."

"Really?" Sentinel asked, quirking an optic ridge.  "No matter.  Do you got it on you now?"

"Yes sir," Shockwave said, pulling the device from his subspace, and gave it a dutiful once over, as Sentinel looked on with eager optics.

_Senator Ratbat: Primary benefactor of Kaon's lucrative underground pit-fighting scene._

_Senator Decimus: Owner of Cybertron's primary factories dealing in the controversial production of drone parts._

_Senator Proteus: Has several connections with the trafficking of bots in Nyon, Helex, and Iacon . . ._

The list went on, each name more disgusting than the last.  Most were senators, some were not.  None of them, at least as far as Shockwave knew, were Decepticons.  This, he could live with - waste of time though it was.

"You think it was one of them?"

"That's right.  I've already done the hard part.  They all got the motives, they all got the means, all you gotta do is figure out which of them it is.  Maybe even find Master Yoketron and the missing protoforms if you're feeling really ambitious."

"Fair enough."  Sentinel's leaps in logic were positively astounding; Shockwave knew it was ultimately for the best, but playing along would be difficult if he wanted to maintain even a shred of dignity.  "I suppose you'll be wanting me on this immediately."

"Yes, I would," Sentinel confirmed, smirk gaining a predatory gleam.  "But you wanted to know exactly why I brought you here, didn't you?  Well, I'll be the nice guy for once, and spell it out.

"You are on probation.  Your performance here will determine future funding for your department, as well as allotment of resources and personnel.  Try not to disappoint me."

So it _was_ a test, after all.  It was annoying and unlikely to be solvable to Sentinel's standards, but Shockwave was in no position to refuse.  "I understand, sir.  You have nothing to fear."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It occurs to me after writing this, that I can't think of many fics that are written from Shockwave's perspective while he is Longarm. Now I can understand why @.@ I've settled on just calling him Shockwave, unless his actions specifically belong to his disguise, but I may slip up here or there.
> 
> Also, me thinks he might have a wee bit of a crush. ^^
> 
> Anywho, I hope you liked it!


	5. Voyage from The Pit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All Optimus wanted to do was recharge after a long day of work. Too bad no one would let him.

Optimus Prime was not having a good day.  Well, the whole voyage had been pretty suspect, but today in particular had been especially bad.  And at the root of most of his troubles was his own crew.

Huffer and Gears had been in a bit of a kerfuffle earlier, and now they couldn't stand to be in the same room as one another.  Swerve, who ran the bar, had been caught selling bootleg energon, and now the clientele were demanding action.  Blaster had been booked for the entertainment deck tomorrow evening, but had managed to damage his vocaliser - Optimus still hadn't found a replacement for him.  And now, his engine room crew couldn't even be bothered to stay at their posts for an entire shift.  Bumblebee had even run down a member of the Elite Guard, and while the alleged victim seemed to think lightly of the affair, one of the witnesses, a little debutante named Sunstreaker, had been insistent about pressing charges.

All of this was compounded by the fact that Sentinel Prime was still pressuring him not to dock on any planets.  The passengers were growing restless from eight solar cycles straight in space, and while Sentinel could make life really annoying, the other Prime held no authority over him so long as they were on his ship.  He wasn't about to let himself be bullied into shirking his duties, no matter how persistent Sentinel was.

All in all, Optimus had begun to think of this as the voyage from the Pit, and he couldn't wait to see the backside of it.

It was late into the evening, and he'd at last been relieved of his duties on the bridge.  Unfortunately, he wasn't off the clock yet.  There was still some discipline to dole out.

"Optimus Prime to Ratchet."

"Ratchet speaking," came the grouchy voice of the chief medical officer.

"I'm sorry, is this a bad time?"

"A bad time?  You tell me.  I've just had two clowns show up on my doorstep, saying they're here to help me.  'Help' me?  What does that mean, Optimus?"

Optimus winced.  "I'm sorry.  I meant to call sooner.  You've been saying that you wanted someone to help tidy your office, and here I am with two trouble-makers who need something to do . . ."

"So you shove 'em off on me?"

Perhaps this had been a mistake, after all.  "You can send the back if you like.  I can always dig up something else for them to do.  Come to think of it, I _do_ still need someone to fill in for Blaster tomorrow."

"No!" Ratchet snapped, then more calmly, added, "No, that won't be necessary.  No need to subject the passengers to _this_ comedy show.  I'm sure I'll find _something_ for them to do."

"Glad to hear it.  Optimus out."  He honestly hadn't been trying to manipulate Ratchet, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't relieved that the issue was out of his hands now.  He tried not to feel guilty.

Ratchet may have been gruff, grumpy, and off-putting like no one else Optimus had ever met, but he was a good friend - one of Optimus's best.  On this ship, he was Optimus's most-trusted officer, and indeed, main confidant.  If Ratchet was upset, then Optimus was as well.  Hopefully he hadn't created too much extra work for the poor guy. 

With the matter of discipline taken care of, Optimus was, at long last, free to relax.  His room - the Captain's Quarters, was rather Spartan for such a luxurious ship.  The furniture consisted merely of a recharge slab, desk, chair, and computer.  However, despite the humble decor, its heavily shielded walls, deadlocked blast doors, and internal life-support systems made it the safest room on an already well-protected ship.  Not that Optimus was the type of captain to cower in his room while his crew and passengers were in danger.

Right now, all he wanted was to lie down for a good night's recharge.  He was so ready for today to be over. 

He pushed away from his desk and hobbled drowsily over to the recharge slab.  Unfortunately, not even two kliks after he'd laid down on that flat, inviting surface, he was jostled awake by a knock at his door.

_Ignore it_ \- or so he very much wanted to do.  But he was the captain, and the captain had duties.  He pulled himself from his slab and trudged to answer - the person on the other side pounding away _clang, clang, clang,_ all the while.

Finally, he reached the keypad and hit a large, green button.  The door slid open to reveal . . .

Optimus hit the red button to his right, and the door slid closed again, or would have if Sentinel's big foot hadn't stepped in to intercept.

"What's the deal, Optimus?" he demanded, forcing the door wide open and marching in like he owned the place.  His half-Decepticon lackeys trailed in behind him.

"Sentinel.  How good to see you . . . at this hour . . . when I'm off-duty.  Can't this wait?"

"No, it cannot!"  He turned his head to the door and gestured with a jerk of his thick neck.  "Come on.  You too."

An unassuming grey bot slunk into the room - stout, and short - though most bots were short when compared to Optimus.  He vaguely recognized him as another Prime.

"Longarm . . . Prime, was it?"

"Yes," he replied, nodding politely.

"Head of Intel," Sentinel supplied helpfully, plopping down on Optimus's chair, feet on the desk.  "He's here to back me up."

"Back you up?  What's this about?"

"Tomorrow, Optimus."

Tomorrow?  Optimus was as lost as he'd ever been.  "What happens tomorrow?"

"We're scheduled to stop off in Theophany tomorrow, remember?"

Oh no.  Not this.

"You have to cancel it."

Optimus rolled his optics.  "Sentinel, I know you think whatever you're doing is important, but I've got a duty to my passengers.  I can't just change the schedule without good reason.  It's been eight solar cycles.  The passengers are restless.  And I'm in more than enough trouble as it is."

"Yeah, well -"

"Suspecting there's a Decepticon onboard is not a good enough reason to keep going."

"And if the head of Intel agrees with me?"

The words caught in Optimus's vocaliser before he could reply.  He wasn't unused to Sentinel pulling dramatic gestures like this - they'd gone to the Academy together, after all - but to have someone in such a uniquely qualified position agreeing with him?  Did Longarm _actually_ agree, or had he been roped into this as well?

"Is that true?" Optimus settled on, addressing the portly Prime.

Longarm's answer was slow, deliberate, as if he'd put a great deal of thought into each word.  "It . . . is not an impossibility.  I've looked into the situation at Sentinel's request, and while there are clearly some shady characters on board, I cannot yet declare with one hundred percent certainty which, if any, may be Decepticon spies."

He'd _definitely_ been roped into this.

"Be that as it may, do either of you want  to be the one to talk down Senator Ratbat when he finds out his scheduled business meeting in Theophany has been cancelled?  Decimus?  Mirage, even?  'Maybes' aren't going to cut it with this crowd."

Sentinel sat up in the chair a little straighter.  "So what?  You're going to put _everyone_ at risk because you're afraid of a few rich brats?"

"Sentinel, don't try to manipulate me," Optimus said with a hard stare.  It made him feel a little bit better to see Sentinel crumple just slightly beneath it.  "For Primus's sake!  If we assumed every Autobot with a little dirt on their servos was a Decepticon spy, we'd never get anything done.

"Show me evidence, and I'll be the first to relent, but until then, we proceed as scheduled."

Optimus turned his back on Sentinel, moving to stand by the door, arms beckoning the uninvited guests towards it.  "Now, I'm sorry to be rude, but I've had a long day, and I'd appreciate some time to myself."

The orange jet (Jetfire?) was the first to move, cocking his head at Sentinel for further instruction.  When none came, he began hesitantly slinking towards the door, his brother (Jetstorm?  Yeah, Jetstorm!) on his heels.

That was when the next uninvited guest arrived.

Bumblebee plowed through the door and straight into Jetfire, with enough force to knock himself over.

"Oww," he groaned, rubbing his head, before he realized just whom he'd run into.  "Oh man, not again!"

Jetstorm peered around his stricken brother.  "Oh!  Is funny yellow bot from before!  He I told you about, brother!" he said gleefully.

Jetfire bent over and scooped up Bumblebee, placing the bewildered little bot back on his pedes with a cheeriness to match his brother's.  "He is being a clumsy bot," he laughed. 

"Bumblebee?"  Optimus's mouth had finally caught up to his brain.  "What are you doing here?  You're supposed to be with Ratchet."

"I was," Bumblebee protested, gingerly rubbing his backside with a groan.  "Man, you Elite Guard mechs are built out of some tough stuff."

"Bumblebee!" Optimus warned.

Before Bumblebee could answer, however, Bulkhead ducked clumsily through the door, followed shortly by Ratchet, who seemed to be clutching a mechanical arm from one of his medical devices - well, part of one, anyway.

"I thought you said you were sending me helpers, Prime!" Ratchet snapped, gesturing wildly with the broken tool, which flopped about comically.  "Do you know how long it took them to break something important?!"

"Uhh . . ." was all Optimus could think to say.

"Better question.  Do you know how long it took them to smash my office?"

A snicker from Sentinel brought the angry medic's attention to the room's other occupants for the first time.  Had it been anyone other than Ratchet having this outburt, they might've been embarrassed.  As it was, Ratchet fixed Sentinel with a long, hard glare.  Optimus reveled at the uncomfortable look on his face.

"You find this funny, Sentinel Prime?"

Sentinel snorted in defiance, but had enough wits about him to not goad Ratchet further.  There were few who could stand up to Ratchet and get away with it.  That mech was one of an ever-decreasing number of those who had lived through the great war - fought in the great war.  He'd seen a lot of things in his time  - things that Optimus, even with his fancy rank, could never begin to imagine.  The grumpy mech commanded respect, and only fools denied him it.

"No sir," Sentinel said at last, wisely caving under the pressure.

Ratchet whipped around, returning his attention to Optimus.  "Well, Optimus?  How do you intend to fix this mess?"

"I - well," words failed him once again.  There were just too many problems to focus on.  How had he been saddled with so many incompetent crew members this time around?

His gaze fell on Bulkhead first."What happened?"

"I'm sorry," Bulkhead answered, looking at his pedes.  "I went to put away a book, and I sorta . . . tripped, and uh . . ."

"It was crazy!" Bumblebee helpfully supplied.  "I don't know if you're familiar with the term 'domino effect,' but oh man!  We had whozits falling into knick knacks, knocking over doo dads, until the whole place was a wreck!  I swear, it was like something out of a movie!"  In true Bumblebee fashion, he was oblivious to the glare Ratchet was currently fixing him with.

It was all getting to be a bit too much.  Eight bots were all crammed into his room, and all of them wanted him to do things for them that he just couldn't.  Were it in his power, he'd shoo them all away, and recharge at long last, but he couldn't say 'no' to Ratchet, and Sentinel wouldn't take 'no' for an answer.

At least he couldn't think of anybody else who would come running in here to add to the chaos.

Except for another member of the Elite Guard, apparently.  He couldn't help but notice Bumblebee stand a little straighter as the white mech strode through the door, but the newcomer paid him no mind.  He sped straight to Sentinel, a somewhat frenzied air about him, and bent low to whisper in his audial.

Sentinel's smug smirk dropped; his face grew grave.  "Are you sure about this?" he asked, rising to his feet.

"Yes sir.  I saw it myself."

"Frag," he swore under his breath, shuffling to the door in a hurry.  He paused before going through, as if remembering there were seven pairs of curious optics watching his back.

"Longarm, I'll contact you soon.  Jazz, Jetfire, Jetstorm - with  me.  Optimus -"  It was Sentinel's turn for words to fail him.  He stood in the doorway for a long moment, face obscured from view, as he grasped for the answers.

When he turned around to meet Optimus's optics, his own were solemn.  It was not a look he wore well.  "I think I've found your proof."

Optimus's processor stalled.  He could deal with Sentinel being right - that wasn't even an issue.  But what had the white mech (Jazz, apparently) found?  Was his ship in danger?  "Proof?"

"Jazz here found some explosives planted near the engine room."

Optimus couldn't help but glance to Bumblebee, Bulkhead as well, both of whom appeared every bit as terrified as he felt.  Had their negligence doomed the lot of them?  If they survived this mess, he'd never be able to forgive this.

"They've been disabled, of course," assured Sentinel, "but the fact remains that they were onboard, and primed to explode - sabotage."

"But why would anyone want to blow up _this_ ship?" Bumblebee squeaked.

It was Jazz who responded this time.  "A ship like this's got a lot of powerful folk onboard - I'm thinkin' it looks like a shiny energon treat to the Decepticons.  But what are you thinkin', Longarm?"

Longarm had a finger pressed thoughtfully to his prominent chin-strap.  "People in power have powerful enemies, regardless of who they are.  Decepticon or not, I believe an investigation is warranted.  No one boards, no one disembarks until we've detained those responsible."  Optimus didn't miss the scrutinizing look Longarm shot Sentinel. 

While Optimus _did_ have to note the rather convenient timing of this discovery, even _Sentinel_ wasn't so stupid as to pull something like this, just to get his own way.  Was he? 

Slowly, he nodded.  "I agree.  We will not dock anywhere until this matter is resolved."

Sentinel grinned at him, though the usual smugness was surprisingly absent.  "I'm glad, Optimus.  You've made the right choice."

Optimus was beginning to think this night couldn't get any worse.  He was, once again, proven wrong. 

Faintly, in the distance, a soft rumble reached his audials, and beneath his feet, he could feel the steady thrum of the engines stall.  Nobody else seemed to pay it any mind, however.  Was he imagining things?

Aware of Sentinel's gaze lingering expectantly on him, Optimus decided to ignore the feeling for now.

"Just make sure you do it quickly."

Before Sentinel could even respond, the world fell out from under Optimus.  His body flew through the air, stopped only by his collision with the recharge slab.

He was back on his feet in an instant, ignoring the similarly scattered forms of the others.  Something was direly wrong, and it was his duty as captain to find out what.  He opened his comm.

"Optimus to Wasp."  No answer.  "Optimus to Wasp.  Come in Wasp."  Still nothing.  "Optimus to Ironhide!  Is everything all right?"

Fear was beginning to take him.  He barreled towards the still-open door, ready to find out for himself.

"I wouldn't," Longarm warned, propping himself up in the far corner of the room.

"Engine room's not responding.  I need to find out what's happened."

Longarm wasn't to be stopped, however.  He stared out over the room, his eyes unfocused - empty, as if there were no spark behind them at all.  It did nothing to ease Optimus's fears.  "It seems those explosives were not so disarmed as you suggested."

Sentinel's mouth stood agape as he crawled out from under the toppled desk chair. 

"What?!"  There was real fear in his eyes, like an animal hunted.  "What are you saying?!"

"I'm saying, there's been an explosion.  The ship has already suffered severe damage, and is succumbing to even more as we speak."  Longarm's voice was commanding, almost ancient-sounding, shooting straight to the spark of every bot within earshot.

"I'm saying, we have a few kliks left before the ship falls apart around us, and we're left careening off into the depths of space."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally, we're leaving our introductory chapters for a little bit of action! I'm so excited, you have no idea!
> 
> [EDIT 6/29/15]  
> Fixed a tiny continuity error towards the end.


	6. Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An explosion on the ship turns Blurr's world upside down. All he can do now is run, and try not to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it occurred to me that Ratbat IS in fact, a rather prominent Decepticon. (Ignoring the fact that he already exists in TFA as one of Soundwave's buddies.) 
> 
> Let's just pretend that, for the purposes of our story, there are two Ratbats. One: A keytar that shouldn't even exist at this point in time. And Two: a skeezy senator who has no affiliation with the Decepticons.
> 
> My bad...

Blurr's spark really wasn't in this investigation.  How could it be?  It was fine when there had been an air of mystery involved - a problem to solve, but he was lacking in both at the  moment.  He knew why he was here - had seen the dossiers of their potential targets - but it was all a farce, and the very idea of pinning a crime on an, in this situation, innocent bot delved well into the realm of the unethical.  It made him sick to think about.

Longarm had said to act as he otherwise would, that he didn't want to arouse Sentinel's suspicions.  As utterly wrong as that notion even seemed, Blurr wasn't one to second-guess his superior.  Longarm was as trustworthy as they came, after all.  He would investigate, because that was what he would do in this situation sans-Sentinel, whether he liked it or not.

And so he'd come to find himself snooping through Senator Ratbat's oversized suite, not expecting to find anything of interest, but also not knowing what else to be doing.

The senator himself, was currently in the ship's lounge with some of his cohorts, getting revved up on circuit boosters like some common street thug - unscrupulous, but not _technically_ illegal.  Blurr had hung around for a bit, but when it became clear that they weren't going to spill anything of value, he'd decided on a more hands-on approach.  It didn't take him long.  Blurr was quick and thorough - in and out before the suspect had a chance to even consider returning.

There was nothing here, which was in no way surprising.  If Senator Ratbat was up to something, he clearly wasn't stupid enough to bring it on the ship with him.  Blurr did one final sweep of the room to make certain that everything was as he'd left it, then slipped through the door, making sure to lock it properly behind him.

He toyed with the idea of moving on to Proteus.  There was time left in the cycle to investigate, but he was less than eager for a repeat experience, and Sentinel didn't exactly pay him much mind to begin with.  It was unlikely he'd notice such a miniscule change in routine.  Fortunately, he was saved from the necessity of decision-making by a ping from his comm.  Who could that have been?

"Blurr speaking."

"Hey," came an unfamiliar voice from the other end.  "Are you affiliated with one Cliffjumper?"

"I am."  A beat.  "Is he all right?"

"Well," the voice drawled, hesitant.  "He's had a bit too much to drink, and is currently passed out in my bar - Swerve's, in case you're wondering.  I've been playing comm tag for awhile now, trying to find someone to come get him out of here.  Think you could help a guy out?"

"Oh," was all he said.  He should've known this would happen - and so soon after Longarm had requested that he keep an eye on the grumpy little drunkard.  He wasn't going to like this at all.  "Yeah, I'll come pick him up.  Be there soon."

"Thank -" Blurr hung up on the bot before he could finish his reply, and zipped off.

The bar was some seven decks down from Ratbat's suite, but Blurr cleared the distance in scarcely more than a klik, skidding to a stop in front of the humble doors to Swerve's bar.  The rhythmic sound of a bass pounded on the other side, beckoning party-bots, and repelling everyone else.  Blurr fought the urge to leave, _knew_ that if he stepped through those doors, he'd regret it.  But he was nothing if not dutiful.  He slid open the door and stepped inside.

The first thing that drew his attention  was Cliffjumper, slumped over at the bar, sleeping like a bot-offlined.  The second, was a subtle change in the vibrations beneath his feet, independent of those caused by the overbearing music.  The third was the distinct ping of his comm going off.

"Longarm Prime to Agent Blurr."

"Blurr speaking," he said as he shifted his way past drunks and dancers without missing a beat.  All he wanted was to grab Cliffjumper, and get out of here.

"Did you feel that just now?"

"The vibrations, sir?"

"Yes," was the grave confirmation.  "This is only speculation, but I have reason to fear an issue with the engines.  Please be careful.  I want you to -"

Whatever Longarm had meant to say was doomed to remain unfinished.  The ship shifted beneath him, enough so that some of the other passengers ceased in their merriment, looking around, puzzled.  Then the world fell apart.

A deafening roar reached his audials, fiery and mad, like the sound of fifty explosions going off in unison.  The ship lurched in response, tossing patrons, tables, drinks, and everything else it encountered, fastened down or not, about like minibots in a whirlwind.  Screams were added to the cacophony, shattering glass, buckling metal, intermingling with the mess of motion to create a scene of pure chaos.  The walls crackled and fell, support beams twisted and toppled, as if they were made of tin foil.

Had Blurr's reaction time been even a fraction of a second slower, he would've been one more victim to the whims of gravity.  Instead, he was able to maintain a semblance of stability by running and jumping off of anything he could find - crumbling walls, falling beams, tables, chairs, even a patron or two.  He had to keep moving, had to time each stride perfectly - one wrong move, and he may as well be dead.

It was the floor giving way that finally got him.  He found himself falling, trying desperately to regain his foothold - he even managed to succeed, landing wheel-first on a slope of rubble and sliding downwards, tearing at the sensitive rubber in the process, and landing in a heap on another floor below.

Finally, the world righted itself around him, and he was able to take a moment to gather his bearings. 

He'd fallen at least three decks, judging by the neon lights of the bar, now dangling haphazardly high above, once in a while raining sparks down upon them.  All around him were bodies, mixed in with the rubble and debris.  Some were alive and conscious - groaning, whimpering, crying, reaching out for loved ones, calling for help.  Some were missing limbs, bore vicious tears in their plating, leaked energon in a steady pink stream.  One bot, soon to be offlined for certain, had fallen chest-first on a thick metal beam, puncturing a hole straight through to his spark, which flickered weakly around it.

A flash of red in the dusty gray of the upturned ship caught Blurr's eye.  Cliffjumper's small form was peeking out from beneath a pile of shattered glass.  He was surprisingly intact, considering the long plummet.

Blurr scrambled over, mindful not to further shred his already injured tires on the glass.  Tentatively, he extended his EM field, fearing the worst.  Cliffjumper's own field, however, continued to pulse faintly beneath it.  He was alive.  Thank Primus.

"Agent Blurr!  Come in!"  Blurr had never thought that he'd live to see panic coming from Longarm's vocaliser.  Then again, he'd also never thought he'd live to experience an exploding space ship.  The day was full of surprises.

"Blurr here," he answered, in a voice so small, even _he_ was startled to hear it escape him.  He vented some air, then tried again, stronger.  "I'm okay.  The bar just suddenly started exploding around me, and then the floor gave out, and I fell through it, but I'm fine now, and Cliffjumper is too, to varying degrees of the term anyway."  He was aware that he was babbling, aware of just how abnormally fast he was speaking by the end, aware of the way his hands trembled as he said the words.  He only hoped that Longarm could understand, because he didn't think he'd be able to slow down.

"Agent, I need you to listen to me very closely."  Longarm's voice was solemn, commanding as ever, and most importantly, calm.  Blurr let the sound wash over him, engulf him - it was comforting, if only a little.

"Yes sir," he said, still shaky, but not quite so frantic as before.

"You need to get out of there.  Now."

"But what about all of the others?"

"Leave them.  I'm developing a theory as to what happened.  The details aren't important right now.  I just need you to get to the captain's room as fast as you can."

"Not the escape pods, Sir?"

"No.  The captain's cabin.  I trust you know where it is."

"Yes sir."

"Then you'd best hurry.  I'll stall for as long as I can, but I can't make any promises.  Longarm out."

Blurr wasn't once to disobey orders, but he found himself hesitating nonetheless.  The idea of leaving the other victims behind felt very wrong to him, but Longarm commanded it, and if he couldn't trust Longarm to do what was best, then who _could_ he trust?  The real issue was Cliffjumper.  He was part of the intelligence agency too, after all.  He _knew_ the guy; he couldn't just leave him!  A few quick calculations in his head told him all he needed to know.  Carrying another body _would_ slow him down, but not astronomically so - certainly not enough to dissuade him.  His decision had been made.

Guilt set aside, he maneuvered the small bot onto his shoulders, surprised by just how much weight he managed to pack into such a diminutive frame.  There was no time to dwell on such things now, however.  The very moment he had Cliffjumper securely in place, he was off, making a lightning-fast circle around the room's circumference to build speed.

Any exit had since been blocked by rubble, and the captain's cabin was a whopping 16 decks up - he'd need every shortcut he could get.

Confident in his speed, he made a full-on charge for the debris pile he'd skidded down on earlier, feet gliding over the volatile surface as if it were a race track, and from there, it was a straight vertical run up the wall.

Disaster struck him at the top; the ship jerked suddenly, and between the dangerous vertical run and the unfamiliar weight of Cliffjumper, he was unable to adjust for it.  He was flung through the air - mercifully not back into the pit, but through the small sliding doors he had passed through mere kliks ago.  They buckled beneath his force, and he went flying into the now-inclined hallway, though they were able to slow his momentum just enough to regain his footing.  He was off again.  All he had to do now was retrace his steps from earlier, and hope the ship's layout hadn't changed too much. 

What a silly hope.

He burst into the stairwell, or what used to be the stairwell.  Now, there was nothing.  This entire side of the ship had been blown straight out.  Debris, and a few bodies floated slowly by.  He tried not to look - tried not to recognize anyone. 

The ship's artificial gravity was doing its damndest to hold onto everything, but every so often, it lost its grip, and something - a chunk of the hull, a free-floating recharge slab, an abandoned limb, would go flying off into space.

He didn't have time to go back - try and find another stairwell.  There was too much of a risk of running into another dead end situation anyway.  Instead, he eyed the trajectory of the debris, and plotted a course.  There was no margin for error.  If he screwed up here . . . He imagined being trapped, helpless, in space - unable to get the traction he needed to even run - forced to float aimlessly until he eventually ran out of fuel and starved to death  . . .

Setting aside those fears, he took a few steps back, and made a run for the nearest chunk of spaceship.  He was off it the moment he landed, already on his way to the next, his every being focused only on making his next jump, climbing the decks, maintaining his footing, until at last, he'd made it to his destination.  With one final leap, he was back in the ship, making a smooth landing, and zipping off towards the captain's cabin - to where Longarm was waiting for him.

He sped down the hall, turning corners, making a straight break - he was so close . . .

And then the floor fell out from beneath him once again.

He fell backwards, Cliffjumper's added weight throwing him off-balance.  All he could do was hope for the best.  And for once, Primus had mercy on him. 

The distance he fell was negligible, barely even his own height.  He'd managed to wedge himself between the uneven walls of this hole, back braced on one side, legs on the other.  Cliffjumper had fallen off his shoulders, and had landed on the ground below in what must have once been some kind of vent, though now stood half-collapsed, airways clogged with wreckage.

Slowly (a great feat for him), he lowered himself to the floor, until he stood on his own two feet.  There wasn't enough room for him to properly reposition Cliffjumper; he'd have to trust his strength to get the little guy out of the hole and back onto the upper floor.  He bent over and scooped Cliffjumper into his arms.  He was heavy to lift and awkward to move, but Blurr was unswayed.  Using every ounce of his rather miniscule upper body strength, he rose up, and, using the wall as a crutch, managed to push Cliffjumper over the lip of the hole, giving him a good shove to get him a safe distance away.

Now it was his turn.  He threw his own arms onto the floor above, intending to hoist himself over the edge and back on track.  Naturally, it didn't quite work out that way.

The floor chose the opportunity to cave under his weight, and he fell forward, crashing right through the bottom of the vent, the unarmored protoform of his midsection colliding with one of the twisted support beams that had lined the ceiling of the room below.  The impact was hard enough to make him see sparks, but wasn't nearly as bad as half of the ceiling raining down afterwards,  effectively pinning Blurr in place.

The sensation of being trapped had never been one that Blurr fancied, but riled up as he was, he couldn't help but burst into full-on panic mode.  His vents began to come out faster and faster, as a feral fear rose within him, and he kicked out with his legs again and again, flailing like a deranged beast in an effort to dislodge the heavy debris which crushed him so.  It didn't budge in any meaningful way - if anything, shifting just enough to crush him further. 

Oh Primus, he was going to die he was going to die he was going to die-he-was-going-to-die-he-was-going-to-die- _he-was-going-to -_

"Agent Blurr, come in!  Where are you?"

Longarm!

"I'm here," he choked out, weakly.  "I'm nearby, actually.  I'm on the same deck and everything, and let me tell you, it wasn't easy.  I've been lugging Cliffjumper the whole way, and I gotta say, he's pretty heavy for such a tiny bot."  He was babbling at warp speed.  He didn't care.

"Cliffjumper?"  Agent, I said -"

"And hey, did you know the entire stern of the ship just - is gone?  It's not there anymore!  Crazy, isn't it?  You gotta warn people about things like this, but I guess that's only expected - have you _seen_ the structural integrity of this ship?  It's severely lacking, let me tell you.  One little explosion, and the walls are gone and the floors are gone and they should call for a safety inspection, 'cause Primus knows this ship is anything but -"

"Agent Blurr," Longarm interrupted, his voice strong and forceful, commanding respect, and Blurr suddenly felt very much like a chastised sparkling.  It was enough to calm him down, if only a bit.

"I'm sorry Sir.  I don't think I can -"

"One klik.  I can stall for one more klik.  After that, you're on your own.  I suggest you hurry.  Longarm out."

And then his voice was gone, and Blurr was completely and utterly alone, dangling 80 feet above the lower floor, pinned between a beam, a wrecked vent, and a ceiling that was trying so very hard to crush the life out of him.  He didn't want to die - not here, not now.  Not knowing that he'd failed Longarm - Longarm who trusted him, Longarm who was stalling, waiting, expecting. 

Blurr wanted to see him again, more than anything.  He couldn't give up now - allow himself to become another victim of the uncaring infinity of space; he was Elite Guard, after all!  He'd fight until the end, and then keep right on fighting.

His struggling ceased.  Instead, he flared his plating as wide as it could go.  It creaked painfully beneath the weight above, but did manage to give him a little bit of wiggle room.  His engine revved, as hard as it could, preparing for his next big move.  With all of  his might, he lifted himself up onto his arms, and kicked the bar which he was trapped upon.  The angle was awkward, and his legs couldn't reach as well as he'd have liked, but they were powerful, and to his elation, the force was enough to merit effect.  The already twisted beam snapped, dropping the contents trapped upon it to the floor below.  Blurr held tightly to the bar like a lifeline, and, once he'd been safely freed from his former prison, clambered up into the vent, leapt off the remaining wall, and came skittering to a stop on the floor above, right beside Cliffjumper's still form. 

For just the barest of moments, he considered leaving him.  Cliffjumper had done nothing but slow him down and nearly get him killed.  He didn't want to risk another occurrence  like this one - he couldn't afford to lose a second more.

But he also couldn't abandon him to his fate.  He'd been looking the other way all night, ignoring the bodies around him, the cries of scared and wounded bots begging for his help.  He was an Autobot; he was supposed to save people!  Even if he could only save one, that was better than nothing.  He grabbed Cliffjumper's arm, and began to run.

It hurt.  He was frazzled, overheated, and his body just wasn't responding quite right.  But he kept running, Cliffjumper flying in the air behind him, still unconscious, but alive.  He turned one final bend - the captain's room was in sight, and in the door stood Longarm Prime, solemn expression transforming to relieved as he recognized the sight of Blurr racing towards him.

"Look out!" he cried, giving Longarm just enough time to clear the door before he came barreling through, not even caring as his frame finally gave out beneath him.  He lost his grip on Cliffjumper, who went flying somewhere to his left, while he crashed into some yellow bot who was too slow to move out of the way.

He lay where they'd fallen, plating flared and vents on full blast, heedless of the protesting bot squirming beneath him.  He'd done it.  He'd won.  It was all over now.  He could rest.

Distantly, he heard the door snap shut, heard the protests of the captain, as Sentinel and Ratchet held him back, heard Longarm step closer, ask if he was okay.  Everything was moving slow - far too slow.  He shuttered his optics to block it out.

He knew something was wrong the moment he did so.

Maybe he'd imagined it.  Maybe it was a side effect of overworking himself, of the trauma he'd just been through.  Or maybe fate truly wasn't going to let him catch a break.

All that Blurr knew, was that, for the fifth time that night, he was falling, the screams of the bots surrounding him singing him off to the awaiting darkness.  He fell into stasis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted this WAAAAY past my bedtime. Hope there's no glaring mistakes in here.
> 
> [EDIT 6/29/15]  
> Tweaked one line near the end to fix a minor continuity error.


	7. A New World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bumblebee comes to in the aftermath of the explosion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a bit of a breather. 
> 
> (Somehow this chapter got kinda long. Oh well)

The first thing Bumblebee noticed upon coming to, was just how very uncomfortable the recharge slab was.  Who even made a slab with that many angles and pointy bits?  It was even moving!  And that was the moment he realized that the recharge slab was alive and most likely another bot.  He onlined his optics, and was met with the vivid blue form of that frenzied bot from earlier - the one Longarm had so vehemently held the door for.

_He's fast_ , he'd said.  _I wouldn't ask for anyone else, but it's Agent Blurr.  You_ know _that he'll make it here with time to spare._ Precious.  And also really infuriating.  As if _Bumblebee_ couldn't have done the same. 

The bot shifted beneath him again, a bit more pointedly this time.  He wanted out.  Embarrassed, Bumbled was quick to roll to the side.

"Sorry about that."

The bot ignored him, and tried to sit up, only to let out a pained groan and fall right back down.  Bumblebee, selfless bot that he was, felt a pang of worry.  The poor guy looked like he'd been to the pit and back; his plating bore massive dents, particularly about his large shoulder pauldrons and chest, and then there was the matter of the dried energon, caked in various places about his frame.  Bumblebee crawled closer to the stranger, leaning over his prone form with worried optics.

"Are you alright?  Maybe you should stay down for a bit.  You look beat.  Maybe I'll see if I can't have Ratchet take a look at you."

The notion wasn't bad, but one look around the room told Bumblebee it would be easier said than done.  Scattered all about were the unconscious forms of other mechs - Optimus here, Bulkhead there - Ratchet himself was slumped over by the door.  Speaking of the door, there was something subtly wrong about it, though Bumblebee couldn't pinpoint what that might be.  "Or maybe not."

When he turned around again, the stranger had vanished.  Bumblebee made another quick scan of the room.  It didn't take him long to find _that_ shade of blue, kneeling a few feet away beside Longarm Prime's unconscious body.  Of _course_ he was. 

Bumblebee crept over to join them.

Longarm, like the others was unconscious, both optics shuttered.  Oddly enough, that silly red bulb he wore in the center of his forehead had gone equally dark.  The blue bot was watching that unmoving frame with the cutest little pout on his face.  He was worried - about boring, unremarkable _Longarm Prime_.  It was hard to wrap his head around _that_.

"Ah, you are being awake!"

Bumblebee jumped at the unexpected voice.  Those weird twins, first the orange and then the blue, poked their heads out from behind Bulkhead's similarly-stasis-locked form.

"It is a whole cycle, but everyone still being sleepy," said the blue one.

"Is very boring, right brother?" the orange one added.

"A whole cycle?" the speedster asked, suddenly standing beside Bumblebee.  "Have you found anything about our situation in that time?"  The words came out at such a speed that Bumblebee was barely able to understand them.  Between the way he talked and the way he moved, Bumblebee bet this guy's name was Skitter, or Zippy, or something equally fast-sounding.

"Well," the orange twin pondered.  "When we are waking up, everyone is still asleep."

"The doors are being locked," the blue one supplied.

"The room is all turned around."  The orange one pointed at the ceiling high above - the floor rather.  Optimus's desk and recharge slab still sat upon it, securely bolted in an upside-down position.  No wonder the room had seemed off.

"And that's all you found?" Zippy inquired, putting his hands on his hips in a huff.  "What did you did you do for the rest of the cycle?  You have basic medical training, don't you?  I see six bots in this room who are still unconscious - wait a minute."

Within seconds, the speedster had peered into every potential hiding place in the upside down room - not that Bumblebee was impressed.  He _totally_ could have done the same - injured or not.  It wasn't like there were even that many places for a bot to hide.

"Where's Jazz?"

"Jazz?" the blue twin questioned.

"Yes.  I know I saw him when I got here, but he's not here now."

The orange one shrugged his shoulders.  "We are not knowing where Jazz went."  The blue one nodded sagely in agreement.

Bumblebee was beginning to feel rather left out of the conversation.  Just because the others were all (allegedly) Elite Guard, didn't mean that his input was invaluable.  He took a step forward, placing himself between Zippy and the twins and said the first thing that came to mind.

"Jazz - was he the handsome one?"

He reveled in the stupid look that fell across Zippy's face at the question, though it was short-lived.  "Jazz is the white bot that was in here earlier.  I'd never particularly thought to describe him in such a manner in the past, but I suppose he is objectively attractive, if not quite my type.  Not that any of this is even relevant right now.  I would ask you to refrain from unnecessary questions, or are you unaware of the gravity of the situation?  Let me inform you, that our ship was demolished, thousands are dead or missing, and our own fates are uncertain - there is work to be done right now, so please, unless you have something important to contribute, I'm going to have to ask you to zip it."

Bumblebee bit his lip, sheepishly.  Zippy sounded agitated, but he couldn't tell quite about what.  "Um, sorry, I didn't get any of that."

The blue twin stepped forward with a wide smile.  "Jazz is being mech you make of the googly eyes at earlier."

Zippy shook his head with an impatient huff.  "Yes, well, now that _that_ matter's been settled, let's cut the chatter and get back to trying to solve our problems.  Jetfire!  Jetstorm!"

"Sir!" both twins barked in unison, standing to attention.

"Was I correct in assuming the both of you have basic medical training?"

"Yes sir!" the orange one (Bumblebee assumed he was Jetfire, based on his colors, which would make the other Jetstorm) affirmed.

"Then I want you to attend to Ratchet over there," he indicated Ratchet's prone form by the door with a jerky wave.  "Get him back on his feet so he can take care of anyone else who's been injured."

"Yes sir!" they shouted, again in unison.  Without a second wasted, they were off attending to the fallen medic.

"What can I do?" Bumblebee asked, eager to help.

The slender mech leaned forward, scrutinizing Bumblebee with narrowed optics.

"Do you have any medical training?"

"No."

"Are you an experienced engineer?"

Bumblebee puffed out his chest in pride.  "I happened to be on the engine crew of this very ship!"

Zippy frowned thoughtfully for a second.  "I'm guessing you're Bumblebee?"

"Yeah.  I see my reputation precedes me," he said with a toothy grin.

Instead of replying to Bumblebee's comment, or offering him a job, Zippy pulled a small tablet from his subspace, glancing over it with a frown.  "I see."

"Well?" Bumblebee prompted, losing a bit of steam.  What was this guy doing?

"Well, as it seems you don't have any applicable skills, I'm going to request that you silence your vocaliser and let the rest of us get to work.  I'll let you know if I need anything."  He turned his back on Bumblebee in a snap, instead focusing his attention upon the desk on the ceiling.

Bumblebee was having none of that.  He was _not_ going to be brushed off like some _civilian_!  "Well, what are _you_ going to do?" he snapped, a bit harsher than he'd intended.

Zippy didn't even spare him a glance as he replied.  "I'm going to see if I can't activate the ship's computer to get a better idea of what happened, what's happening at this instant, and what I can make happen next."

"Oh," he said, though he very much wanted to make a comment about speaking, and how it should be done at a comprehensible speed.

Zippy began pacing, looking between the floor and ceiling, as if trying to gauge the distance.  A big bot like Bulkhead would have _just_ been able to reach the desk's built-in computer, but Zippy, while not exactly short, was still lacking _quite_ a few feet.  Come to think of it, that gave Bumblebee an idea.

"Do you need a boost?" he asked, bending slightly to highlight his shoulders.

Zippy stared at him as if he'd spilled engex on Alpha Trion's beard.

"I have no intention of standing on your shoulders, if that's what you mean.  Not only do I doubt that you have both the strength and balance to support me for an extended duration, but I doubt you would add enough height to make much difference anyway."

"A-are you calling me short?  Throw me a bone here, Zippy!"  I want to help!"

"Blurr," the bot said, apropos of nothing.

"I - what?"  What did that mean?  Was it a codeword?  Elite Guard slang?

"My name.  It's not Zippy.  I could go into just how banal I find that choice of name to be were our situation less dire and had I the energy, but let it suffice to say that my name is Blurr."  He paused, as if waiting for Bumblebee to catch up.

"Though I suppose your idea has some merit.  Jetfire! Jetstorm!"

The twins looked up from their positions on the floor by Ratchet.  "Yes sir!"

"I need you to help me move that big green bot over here, then go back to your previous task."

Bumblebee was appalled.  "What?!  You're going to stand on Bulkhead?!  What's wrong with you?  He's not a step stool, he's a bot, and my friend!"

His protestations were, however, ignored, and he was forced to watch as the unconscious body of his best friend was hoisted up between the two surprisingly strong mechs, hauled across the room, and ultimately deposited at Blurr's feet - right beneath the desk.  This was so messed up.

If Blurr had any reservations about using people as furniture, he didn't reveal them, and hopped atop Bulkhead's generous torso plating.  He reached the computer with ease, and wasted no time getting to work.

Bumblebee sat himself down in the crook of Bulkhead's left arm with a sigh.  He couldn't contribute, couldn't protect his friend, had no way of proving himself - least of all when a bot who was, for all intents and purposes, a better version of _him_ was in the room.  _This_ was the Elite Guard.  There was no room for the likes of him on their team.  He was utterly hopeless.

A strangled grunt from above drew him from his thoughts.

"Are you all right up there?"

Blurr kept right on with his habit of not looking at Bumblebee while he spoke.  "It's proving a bit harder to break into his computer than anticipated.  I suppose he _is_ a Prime, after all.  But he'll be long awake by the time I'm able to crack this password."

"Password?" Bumblebee repeated, previous reservations forgotten as he crawled unsteadily onto Bulkhead's chest to join Blurr.  "I don't know what all that other stuff you said was, but if you need the password, it's 'Elita One.' Two words, capital E, capital O."

Blurr _did_ look at him this time, utterly baffled by the awesomeness that was Bumblebee.  Who would've thought that a disregard for the rules combined with a penchant for snooping would come in handy? 

That sweet expression of awe and confusion disappeared from Blurr's face as quickly as it had come, and he instead returned his attention to the computer, typing in the password at light-speed.  The pleased sound he made when it inevitably worked was even the tiniest bit cute.  But he was off the moment he was in, clicking away as rapidly as the machine could process.  It was hard to spy on his screen from Bumblebee's inferior vantage point - his neck was craned so far, he thought it his head should pop off any minute - but of the visuals he _could_ make out, he noticed some graphs, charts, and a visual feed of something unidentifiable, but rather green.

"So, you find anything interesting?"

He received no answer this time, the other bot was so absorbed in his work.  And a quick glance around the room, confirmed that everybody else was also either working or still unconscious.  That wouldn't do.  He was bored already.  And Blurr was just so conveniently _there._

"So, I couldn't help but notice that you're fast." He tried a new approach.

No answer save for the continued clacking of deft fingers on a keyboard.

"I'm fast too, y'know.  'Fastest thing on wheels,' they call me."  He winked an optic.

"They're wrong," Blurr said dismissively, optics focused very intently on what looked like a wall of text.

"What?" Bumblebee choked, more appalled by Blurr's lack of interest than the words he'd said.  It wasn't hard to see which of the two was faster, but _this_ was just rude.  "I-I'll prove it!  Let's race!"

"No."

"C'mon," Bumblebee pressed.  "You and me!  Unless you're scared?"

This time, Blurr _did_ turn to face him, optics narrowed in a pointed glare.  "If you don't mind, I'm trying to read system reports, many of which have been corrupted due to the damage our apparent escape pod has undergone.   I don't have time for games right now. "  He paused, to let his words sink in.  "Leave." Pause. "Me." Pause. "Alone."  He made a sharp gesture towards the far wall of the room, and Bumblebee took the hint.  With a dejected sigh, he climbed down off of Bulkhead, and took a seat next to the unconscious form of Optimus Prime. 

He cast a nervous glance at his captain – _former_ captain.  There was no way he'd still be working for him one they got out of this mess.  Not after Bumblebee's negligence had let someone plant those explosives.  And worse, Bulkhead would be punished too.  He'd likely never work again - and after vouching for Bumblebee in the first place.  Had a shot at playing the hero really been worth all of this?

He rested his chin on his knees, watching the others work with a frown.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, even as his mind protested the indignity of it all.  It wasn't fair!  Why should his future - _both_  of their futures be ruined because of one tiny mistake?  He couldn't abide that!  _Wouldn't_ abide that.  He'd prove himself - before they got back to Cybertron and had their fates sealed.  It would be easy!

"Don't worry, Optimus!  I'm gonna be the best crewman you've ever had from today on!  You'll see."

The Prime shifted next to him, groaning incomprehensibly, and Bumblebee nearly leapt out of his plating.  When Optimus didn't show any further signs of waking, however, Bumblebee's fear tapered away, leaving behind only a single, nervous laugh.

"You gotta warn me before you do that."

"Is done!" one of the twins called out from across the room.  _That_ sounded interesting.  Bumblebee leapt to his feet and ran over to see just what the pair had been up to.

Fixing Ratchet, apparently.  The medic sat on the floor, rubbing at his head with a grimace – though Bumblebee wasn't sure the expression was caused by pain.  It was pretty much Ratchet's default face.

"What happened here?" he grumbled.

Blurr was by his side in an instant.  "It seems that when we were ejected from the ship, the life support systems tried to induce stasis, which began to wear off at about the same time as we impacted with a planet, due to minor damage incurred during entry, though as you can see, not everyone has recovered yet."

Ratchet was silent for a long moment, his optics narrowed in either an effort to intimidate the other bot, or to understand him.

"Ah," he said.  "I take it you woke me so I could fix up the others."

"That is correct," Blurr confirmed.

"Guess I should get to work then."  He didn't sound like a bot who should be getting back to work right now, but Bumblebee wasn't about to argue with him.

"No where's my -" Ratchet groped blindly at the area around him, before his optics fell on Jetstorm - or more specifically, the contents of his hands.  "Give me that!" he snapped, snatching a small instrument with a vaguely pink glow, before crawling to his feet in a huff.

"What's that do?" Bumblebee asked, approaching Ratchet with curiosity.

"It's a diagnostic tool," Ratchet answered, pointing the device at Bumblebee.  It tingled. 

"Nothing but superficial damage - you really lucked out, kid."  He turned around and pointed the thing at Sentinel, default grimace back in place.  He didn't waste much time on everyone's least favorite Prime, however, and was moving by in a flash.

"What did it say?" Bumblebee couldn't help but ask.

Ratchet shook his head, releasing a disdainful gust of air from his lips.  "He's not in any danger, and that's all I care about.  I'd rather spend my time helping those who actually need it."

He pointed the device next at the little red bot who shared Bumblebee's frame type.  "Hmm."

"What's this one say?"

"Shattered left servo, dented plating, light cranial trauma, and," he paused, raising an optic ridge, "lingering evidence of overcharge."  He turned back to Blurr, who was, once again, fiddling with the computer.  "What happened to this guy?"

At least Blurr had enough sense to look at _Ratchet_ when he spoke.  "He was passed out from drinking too much when I found him, but once the ship blew up, he suffered from a straight fall three decks, followed by whatever damage he may have incurred in the process of me carrying him up here.  There was a lot of falling."

Ratchet raised both optic ridges this time - it was rare to see him so surprised.  "Wow, he got off easy, all things considered."

"Maybe his skill at falling from great heights with minimal damage is why they call him Cliffjumper," Blurr pondered, before returning his attention to the screen.

"Maybe," Ratchet agreed, pointing his device at Blurr, frown deepening.  "Maybe . . ."

He proceeded around the rest of the room, examining Bulkhead, Longarm, the Jet Twins, and finally, Optimus.

"So," Bumblebee asked, tone casual.  "Who you gonna treat first?"

Ratchet took a moment to scratch at his neck plating before answering.  "I suggest you go somewhere else." 

What an offensive thing to say!  Bumblebee couldn't keep the indignity from his voice as he responded.  "What?!  Again?  Really?!  Why?  Is it 'cause you think I'll get in the way, 'cause I promise, I'm not the clumsy one!  I can totally help you even!"

Ratchet's rolled optics did little to quell his mood.

"While I doubt very much that you'd be any help, that's not the case.  I just don't want the first thing Optimus sees when he wakes up to be your mug.  After all that's happened, he's not exactly going to be happy to see you."

"Why?  What did _I_ do?"  He faltered under the unimpressed stare Ratchet gave him.  "Okay, so _maybe_ someone snuck in and planted those explosives while Bulkhead and I were out, but it's not like I did anything intentionally."

"What?!" Now Blurr was staring at him too, optics blown wide.  Worse yet, his undignified squawking had attracted Jetfire and Jetstorm from Sentinel's side.  Bumblebee had found himself the center of attention, and for once, reviled it.

Something shifted behind him.

"Bumblebee?"

That was the last straw.  It was bad enough that everyone else was looking at him, but he couldn't add Optimus to the mix.  With a desperate shout of "It wasn't me!" he flew across the room, making a b-line for the door.  In his panic, he'd completely forgotten that it was supposed to be locked, and he hit the green button - he had to get out!  He didn't even register anything as wrong when it slid open for him. 

He found himself standing outside in the crater left by their collision, and looking around, he began to realize what those green things on the computer screen had been earlier.  Organics!  They had crash-landed on some kind of organic planet!

The ground beneath him was strange - soft, gritty, and brown.  His pedes sank right into it, leaving impressions with each step.  He didn't much care for the way it felt, but the ground above the crater was hardly better - funny green blades - flimsy and weak, that tickled when stepped upon.  All around, were the cracked and toppled-over corpses of several organic brown pillars, murdered in their fall, and small bits of wreckage, though nothing substantial.  Farther out still, were more of those strange pillars, alive this time, and adorned in what appeared to be flimsy, green plating.  In the distance, several brown cliffsides watched over them.

It was quite the exhilarating experience.  Bumblebee had never walked upon another planet before, let alone an organic one.  Forget Optimus and his (somewhat justified) wrath.  It was time to explore.  He wandered off into the trees without looking back.

His trek was quite surreal - the ground beneath him was now made of loose detritus, and came up with his pedes as he walked.  The pillars closed in on all sides, forming a forest of greens and browns.  Even the air had a strange quality to it - light, crisp, and surprisingly pleasant to feel flowing through his vents, though the smells it brought with it were less than desirable.

High overhead, he could hear a soft chirping - wild creatures?  Machines?  Something else?  Whatever they were, they must have been very small - Bumblebee couldn't even see them.

Hold on a second!  There was something hanging between the branching arms of one of the pillars!  A body, black and gold, unconscious.  It seemed a rather precarious situation to Bumblebee - he'd have to rectify it.

With a tilt of his head, he took stock of the pillar he needed to scale.  There were no good handholds for climbing, but it was thin enough that he could probably ooch his way up.  He didn't have the luxury of time to second-guess himself when the bot above could fall any moment, so he wrapped his arms around the thing without hesitation, and hoisted himself up.

Some eighty feet later, he began to realize what a dumb idea this had been.  The pillar swayed and creaked ominously, but his target was barely an arm's reach away.  That fact, of course, brought his next problem to attention.  How was he supposed to get down from here, let alone while carrying another mech?

The pillar swayed again in response, and Bumblebe found himself hastily climbing the last few feet to the branches.  It was here that he was able to properly see this new mech for the first time.

He was taller than Bumblebee - most mechs were, but also quite skinny - it was surprising that the fall (he _had_ fallen, right?) hadn't snapped him in two.  As it was, his dark plating was marred with ugly dents, and the vivid pink of spilt energon; his EM field pulsed faintly.  The severity of his injuries was going to make this predicament even trickier than it already was.

Or it would have, had the pillar - tall and thin - not taken that exact moment to topple over with a violent crack.  Bumblebee braced for impact, but it came much sooner than he'd anticipated.  They crashed firmly into the pillar next to them, which creaked ominously beneath their weight, but ultimately held up.

The other mech had been jostled from his resting place on the way over, and Bumblebee had to leap for his arm, holding tight to keep him from plummeting to the ground below.  Naturally, this created one more predicament to add to his ever-increasing list.

Not only could he not get down, but he was now immobilized to boot.  He had one arm wrapped around the pillar, holding on for dear life, the other holding onto the bot.  Despite what he liked to believe, Bumblebee did not have enough strength to pull the poor bot up.  Worse yet, the stranger was slipping from his grasp, _and_ the branch he was balanced on was now beginning to creak beneath their combined weight. 

Falling from this height probably wouldn't kill him, as much as it would hurt, but his rescuee's EM field was already so faint - it wouldn't take much to put him offline, and that was the last thing he Bumblebee wanted.  For once, Bumblebee had no idea what to do, and it terrified him.  _Primus help me._

Salvation came in the form of a white blur, flitting from pillar to pillar like a cyber ninja.  Bumblebee barely had time to process what he was seeing before the welcome face of Jazz was before him, hoisting the other mech up by the waist, and wrapping an arm around Bumblebee.

"Let go!" he commanded.

Bumblebee barely had time to comply before they were off - and not a moment too soon.  The branch snapped behind them, crashing down to the ground below, even as they continued to bounce between pillars, until at last they landed on the forest floor, with a surprising amount of grace no less!  Only once the pillars around them stopped swaying did Jazz relinquish his hold.

"What were you doin' up there? That was _way_ dangerous."

It was hard not to feel chastized under such scathing words coming from a charming bot like Jazz.  Bumblebee rubbed his head, nervously.  "I see that now, yeah.  I dunno, I guess I just saw that he was in danger, and wanted to help."

Whatever lecture Jazz had been about to deliver was forgotten, replaced by a mirthful chuckle.  "Hah, I guess that's a valid point you got there.  You're all right, my mech.  Reckless, a crazy cat, but all right."  He tapped his chin thoughtfully.  "But what are you doin' so far away from the ship?"

"I - uh . . ."  Bumblebee tried to think of an answer that didn't amount to _I was afraid of Optimus so I ran._ "It was getting kinda cramped in there."

Jazz let out another laugh.  "I feel you."  He then turned his attention to the mech still under his arm.  "But we should probably head back.  This guy's gonna be needin' some medical attention."  He reached out a servo to Bumblebee. 

The tiniest trace of a blush _may_ have graced Bumblebee's cheeks as he took the servo offered.  "Yeah, okay."

 


	8. The Right of Leadership

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Optimus struggles with what he's lost, what he still has, and what he still has the right to.

Bumblebee's squawking was among one of the last things Optimus wanted to wake up to, and yet, here he was.  On the floor.  As the little bot quite flippantly chattered away about whatever it was he found interesting.  It was a little too much to deal with now; Optimus's processor was pounding in his head, and he would've given anything for a strong McGuirkess.  Even more than that, he wanted to tell the little guy off - or at least get him to shut up and respect the right to peace and quiet of those around him.  The stern warning that he had intended, however, came out more as a sleepy groan.

"Bumblebee?"

For some reason, the little bot had leapt across the room, fleeing like all of Megatron's fleet was after him.  He was out beyond the door before Optimus even had the chance to tell him off.  This outcome wasn't exactly objectionable.  Quite the opposite, for the moment.  But what had Bumblebee been doing in his cabin in the first place?

He glanced around the room, at the recharge slab on the ceiling high above, at the bodies still lying on the floor, at the few strange bots standing around, arguing.

"I thought you said the door was locked!" came one of the voices, much too shrill for Optimus's processor to take.

"It was."  That accent could only be one of Sentinel's half-Decepticon lackeys. 

"When we waking up."  And that was the other.

"Then Jazz was unlocking it, and going outside."

"Jazz? You said you didn't know where _he_ was either!"

"We don't," both twins said in unison.  "Right now."

Optimus's senses slowly began to come back to him.  His optics focused.  Ratchet was standing over him, watching him with concern.  Why concern?

The floodgates opened; memories began to stream back like a deluge - falling, and screaming, and fear, death.  It couldn't be true!  That was a dream!  A nightmare!  A falsity.  Not reality.  Not his life.  Things that terrible happened, for sure, but to other bots - bots he'd never met, not to him, and not to his ship, and not to his crew!  He had to make sure!

Optimus was on his feet in seconds, frantically reaching for Ratchet, who took his hand with a solemn expression, even as Optimus barraged him with question after question.  "What happened?  Where are we?  Where's my ship?"

"Hold on there, Captain," Ratchet said, voice two degrees softer than usual.  "You're still a little disoriented.  Vent.  Cool your processor.  One thing at a time."

"Right, right," Optimus muttered, releasing his death grip on Ratchet's hand.  He took a few steps back, venting loudly enough to be heard from the other side of the room.  _Calm down.  Calm down._   He was a Captain - a _Prime_.  Primes didn't panic.  If only he could convince his racing spark of the fact.

At least his vocaliser was convinced.  His words came out with a forced calmness, that took _far_ too much effort to produce.  "First question: what happened?"

Ratchet averted his optics, and rubbed at his chin, deep in thought.  "I know about as much as you do, I'm afraid."  His sentence trailed off, though his optics had fallen on another of the bots in the room - a slender speedster with a vivid blue finish.   "But this bot right here - he's been fiddling around with your computer, tryin' to get more information.  I bet _he_ knows a thing or two."

The bot stepped towards them; evidently, he'd been listening.  "He's right," he confirmed, though Optimus's head must've still been spinning, because the voice sounded much faster than it should have.  "I do."

A perplexed frown graced Optimus's lips as he tried to recall who this bot even was.  "You are . . ."  He bore the crest of the Elite Guard, but otherwise, Optimus couldn't remember having seen him before.  And yet, here he was - in Optimus's room.  He hadn't come in with Sentinel; Optimus would've remembered,  nor had he come in with Ratchet.  And Jazz had come in alone.  Which meant . . .  

"You were . . . Longarm's friend?"

"Subordinate, but yes.  That's correct."

Ah.  That opened the door to even _more_ questions from Optimus.  "You came in just before the door was locked - after the explosion.  You were out there.  You witnessed what happened first hand, right?"

The bot shook his head.  "I wasn't at ground zero or anything, but I was out there when it happened, yes.  In the bar."

"In the bar," Optimus repeated.  "The one near the engine rooms . . ."

"Yes sir," the bot confirmed.  "I was attending to my colleague, Cliffjumper over there, when the engines began to stall.  Longarm Prime called me and told me to get out of there, and seconds later . . ."

Dazed as he was, Optimus had some trouble following the bot's recount of what had transpired.  As it turned out, he really _did_ just talk that fast.  Nonetheless, Optimus was able to gather that the entire stern of the ship had been blown out, and also, that the death toll, at least in that part of the ship, had been high.  After that point, he lost track of the conversation altogether.

"Enough," he snapped, with enough force to make the small mech flinch.  He didn't even feel bad - his processor hurt _far_ too much to be dealing with such incomprehensible babbling right now.  Though he supposed he should fake contrition anyway.  "I - I'm sorry.  That will be all."

He turned his back on the mech to survey the rest of the room in more detail.  Bulkhead lay in the center, sprawled out beneath his desk, which was on the ceiling for some reason?  He hadn't thought much of the recharge slab, but come to think of it, that was pretty odd too.  The computer was on - all of his sensitive information easily accessible for anybody tall enough, but somehow, he couldn't bring himself to care.  Did he even _have_ any sensitive information anymore, now that his ship had been destroyed - now that so many of his passengers had been killed?

He shook his head to erase the thought.  He could dwell on what his failure as a captain had cost another time.  There was still work to be done.

On the far wall, beneath his recharge slab, lay the prone form of Sentinel, attended to by his lackeys.  Awful as it was, Optimus couldn't help but feel a wash of relief that the other Prime had yet to regain consciousness.  There was hardly a situation that couldn't be made worse by the presence of Sentinel's blundering.

Optimus's optics next fell on a small red bot slumped against a nearby wall.  Optimus had no idea who this mech was, but he looked an awful lot like Bumblebee - who had run away for some reason?  Did he think Optimus was angry?  He was, but the childish mech was low on his list of priorities.  He moved on.

Longarm Prime was the final mech he found, unconscious in the corner opposite the door. 

"Hey Ratchet," Optimus said, turning towards his friend.  "Do you think you could get _him_ back online?"

Ratchet shrugged.  "I can certainly try, Prime.  Though he seems to be having a weird reaction to the stasis."

"I'm sorry?"

"The stasis.  Your cabin put us in stasis.  But it should've passed through his system by now - he's not that big of  a mech.  But his EM field - I can't feel it at all.  The machine picked it up, but did recognize that there was an abnormality in it.  I fear he may have glitched.

That . . . was not ideal news.  He didn't know Longarm well, but he knew enough to know that he was skilled, knowledgeable, and able to remain calm in a crisis.

Optimus had lost it back there - once he'd found out what had happened to his ship, his processor had shut down.  All that had mattered was the passengers, the crew!  He had needed to warn them – to get them to safety.  But he'd been unable.  Sentinel and Ratchet had held him back, as he struggled, trying to get out, to get to an unresponsive bridge, to save those he was responsible for.

Longarm had been a mercy.  True, he'd been the one to close the doors in the end, with a demeanor cool as ice, but he'd also been the one to hold them open in the first place - had been responsible for saving not one, but _two_ innocent mechs.  And for that, he had earned Optimus's respect.

"What?  Glitched?!  What do you mean glitched?!"  Optimus found himself pulled back to the present by the shrill voice of Longarm's friend - speak of the devil.

"Glitched," Ratchet answered coolly, despite the jittery bot shrieking in his face.  "I can't be certain, but there may be an abnormality with his spark that is causing his body to respond to external stimulus in abnormal ways.  I'd think _you_ would be familiar with the term."

The speedster backed off a few steps, embarrassed, perhaps?  Or apologetic?  And certainly at least a little offended.  Ratchet had never been one to hold back on the low insults.

Ratchet shrugged his shoulder plates.  "Anyway, I can't be certain of anything yet, but if my choices are between him, Sentinel, Mr. Hangover, or the Walking Disaster, I'll go with him.  Now shoo.  I can't work with you lot hovering around me."

Optimus did as he was told, and left Ratchet alone to work, but he had little idea as to what to do.  He had to stay busy, had to keep his mind focused on anything other than what had happened.

The computer, fastened to the ceiling high above, caught his eye, and for a moment, he toyed with the idea of trying to use it for research.  But there was no way he could reach that on his own, and the thought of standing on Bulkhead to get a boost made him less-than-comfortable.  Something else then.  Perhaps he could go outside.  There wasn't much to do in here, but surely he could make himself useful out there.

"Is done!"

He was pulled from his thoughts once again, this time by the jet twins, who had seen fit to step right into his line of sight, not to mention his personal space, smiling and waving all the while.

"I'm sorry, what's done?"

The twins positively beamed back at him.  "First we fix Ratchet, then we fix Mister Sentinel Prime!"

And indeed, Sentinel was stirring.  It was the last thing Optimus wanted to deal with at the moment.

"Wonderful," he said without sincerity. 

The twins continued to watch him with expectant optics.  Were they looking for appreciation?  Congratulations on a job well done?  Then again, considering who their boss was, it was more likely they were awaiting further orders.  "Why don't the two of you get Bulkhead over there up on his feet?"

"Yes sir!"  They shouted, zooming off to complete another mission.

At least _they_ were easy to deal with.  Too bad their absence left him to face the lion on his own.  He approached with caution.

"Optimus?"

"Sentinel."

Sentinel was surprisingly energetic for a bot just out of stasis.  He was on his pedes in seconds, jabbing an accusing finger into Optimus's chest plate, while making demands.

"What happened?"

"Well, I think it's safe to say those explosives you found?  Yeah, they blew up."

"Don't get cute with me, Optimus.  Why was I knocked out?"

"Captain's escape pod tried to induce stasis automatically."

"Why?"

"Do I look like that's my area of expertise?"  I'm hoping Bulkhead will be able to tell me once he wakes up."

Sentinel looked to Jetfire and Jetstorm at that , both hard at work on reviving the big, green lug.  His lips pursed in a tight frown, clearly displeased. 

"Who gave you permission to order around my Elite Guardsmechs?  And where's Jazz?"

Optimus fell back with a sigh.  "One: as the highest-ranking conscious mech at the time, it stands to reason that nobody had to give me permission to assign out tasks.  As for two:  I can't say.  As far as I know, Jazz is -"

"Right here."

The interruption was hardly proper, but Optimus wouldn't deny his gratitude at the opportunity to get away from Sentinel's ire.  There, in the doorway to the outside world, stood Jazz, with Bumblebee trailing behind, and a strange black mech that Optimus didn't recognize, tucked under his arm.

"Where've you been?"  Sentinel demanded.

"Checkin' out our new digs.  I found these two on the way."  He nodded towards his stragglers.

Optimus couldn't take his optics off the mystery bot.  He lay limply under Jazz's arm, his paint dull, EM field nowhere to be found.  "Is he?" Optimus hesitated, afraid to find the answer.  Fortunately, Jazz anticipated his question.

"Alive, yeah.  Just barely hangin' on.  Was hoping Ratchet would take a look at 'im, actually."

Right on cue, Ratchet hobbled over from his makeshift workstation to join the crowd.  "Take a look at who, now?" he said, even as his own  optics fell on the unconscious mech.  He frowned.  "I see."

In an instant, the old medic had pulled out his diagnostic tool, and was kneeling at the newcomer's side, examining him with a series of 'hmms,' and 'haws.'

"Our friend here's in rough shape.  Looks like Longarm's gonna have to wait."

Fire flashed in Sentinel's optics at Ratchet's declaration.  "He's a Prime," he protested.  "His welfare is more important than some random schmuck's."

Ratchet stomped into Sentinel's personal space, EM field flaring, and rose up on his pedes as high as he could, to look Sentinel straight in the optic.  Unlike Sentinel's efforts to loom, Ratchet came off as _actually_ intimidating.  "I couldn't care if he was the Magnus himself - critical condition patients take first priority.  If you don't like it, then you can get out of my operating room."

Sentinel faltered, as if Ratchet's words had struck a physical blow.  That was when the anger set in anew.  "You _dare_ talk to a superior officer like that?!  I could have you court martialed!"

"Do so, if it suits your fancy.  May take awhile though."

"Why you -"

This couldn't be allowed to escalate.  Optimus reached out a hand, resting it on one of Sentinel's shoulder wheels, holding him back.

"We have better things to do right now than enforce the chain of command."

Sentinel swiped the hand off in a huff.  "Of course _you_ would say that, Optimus.  You just like being in charge."

Before Optimus had a chance to respond, Sentinel had turned on his heel and stalked off in Bulkhead's direction - presumably to go complain at Jetfire and Jetstorm.  It was fine by Optimus, anyhow.  He had his own plans to set in motion. 

Jazz was his target this time.  A few long strides closed the distance between them.

"May I speak with you for a moment?"

Jazz offered a smooth smile in return.  "Shoot."

"You said you found this guy outside, correct?"

"I did."

"If he was here, then there's a chance that there could be other survivors."

The bot hesitated this time, before replying.  "Anything's possible."

"We've got to make sure.  I know we're still getting our own bearings right now, but time is of the essence, and I wouldn't request this if you weren't Elite Guard."  A thought struck him, even as Jazz patiently awaited his orders.  He could wait a few seconds longer.

Optimus found himself seeking out the speedy little mech from earlier.  He found him, kneeling by Longarm's side, his mouth moving in speech, but the words too quiet to make out.

"You, over there!" Optimus called, to no response.

"You talkin' to the blue guy?"  Jazz interjected.

"Yeah."

"Hey Blurr!  O. Prime here wants a chat."  He didn't shout, but his voice carried nonetheless.  The movement was almost imperceptible, but suddenly, the little blue mech was standing opposite Optimus, watching him with wary optics.

"Yes sir!  How can I be of assistance?"

"I was just telling Jazz here, but I want the two of you to go out - see if you can't find any more survivors."

"What?!"

It wasn't from Jazz or from Blurr that the appalled cry came.  Sentinel was back again, marching right up into Optimus's personal space, shoving his mighty chin forward aggressively.

"Who do you think you are?!"

Optimus barely contained a frustrated sigh as he spoke.  " _Now_ what?"

"Ultra Magnus may have made you a Prime out of pity, but you have _no_ right to issue orders to mechs under _my_ jurisdiction.  We _just_ had this conversation!"

The _nerve_ of this mech!  "There are _lives_ at stake, Sentinel.  This isn't about me wanting your job."

"Like the Pit it isn't'!"

Jazz was stepping in before Optimus even had the time to come up with a comeback.

"Hey now, it's no big deal.  We don't gotta do what Optimus says.  But we got a wrecked ship and potential survivors out there, possibly in need of immediate medical attention.  What would you like us to do, sir?"

Sentinel backed off at Jazz's conciliatory words, a perplexed frown on his large mouth.  "Well, I guess we should dig up survivors.  We'll want to send someone fast, but deft enough to manage on unfamiliar terrain.  Jazz, Blurr - you're on survivor duty.  See if you can't scout out the place a bit while you're at it."

"Yes sir," they said - as in-unison as they could be with Blurr's speech impediment.

"And Optimus," Sentinel continued.  "Why don't you go with them?"

"Good idea," Optimus grumbled, trying to hide the disdain in his voice.  Sentinel's power trip was going to get very old _very_ fast.  He didn't want to imagine how bad it could get if they remained here for any long duration.  Oh well.  At least he'd been assigned a task that he had intended to do anyway.  The passengers were his responsibility.  He owed it to them to keep on looking, for as long as he could.

"Jetfire and Jetstorm will follow once they've finished fixing your engine . . . guy."  He waved vaguely at Bulkhead.  Ratchet will keep doing his thing - I guess, and once the bodies are all up and about again, I'll have the engine guy get us flight ready, see what Longarm knows about where we are, and have Cliffjumper . . . assist whoever needs it."  He shrugged, clearly unsure of what to do with Longarm's secretary.  "Meanwhile, _I'll_   stay here and hold down the fort.  Any questions?"

A small voice piped up.

"What about me?  What can I do?"  Bumblebee.  Of course.

Sentinel eyed the tiny yellow bot for a long moment before answering.  "You can stay out of everyone's way."

"What?!" Bumblebee squawked, indignant.  "Don't you know who I am?!"

"Bumblebee," Optimus warned.

The little bot made as if to protest, but then seemed to think better of it, the tension in his shoulders deflating, his rigid face plates softening.  "Fine, fine," he griped, trudging back to Bulkhead, and plopping down by a pede nearly half as big as himself.

Sentinel stood a little straighter, ready to get back to business, as if Bumblebee had never interrupted.  "Now, if there are no further questions."  He paused for an astrosecond, allowing for the opportunity.  When no one responded, he continued.  "Good.  You know you're missions.  Report back here in five cycles.

"Dismissed!"

Blurr was out the door in an instant, Jazz quick on his heels.  Optimus found himself struggling, however.  He gave a final look around the room, at the bodies still on the floor, the furniture on the ceiling, the busy form of Ratchet, Sentinel's accusing grimace.

This was all that remained of his ship, his life, his responsibility.  He didn't know if he was ready to turn it all over to Sentinel so easily.

"Problem, Optimus?"

But he had failed, hadn't he?  Even if the explosives had been planted by someone else, had found their way onboard due to the negligence of his crew, the fault ultimately came back to him.  He'd failed his ship, his crew, his passengers, and he had lost everything in the process.  He wasn't fit to be a Prime, and he wasn't fit to be a captain.  As much as he hated it, Sentinel was in charge now.  After all, Optimus had lost the right to be.

"None, sir."  He walked through the door and into the open mysterious beyond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why do I only finish these things at like, 2 in the morning? Good night >


	9. Emotional

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shockwave is feeling things he really oughtn't to.

Shockwave woke up to the strange sensation of hands moving around inside his chest.  That couldn't have been good.  _Get out!_ he wanted to say, tried to say, but no words came to him.  He couldn't activate his vocaliser, couldn't even move his (well, Longarm's) mouth.  He was trapped - a prisoner inside his own body, and it wasn't even _his_.

He still had the stubby limbs, portly torso, hideous face of Longarm Prime.  He was Longarm, and someone was digging around inside of him, and if they kept it up, they were going to find a few _things_ that they had no business knowing about.  He tried to move, to struggle, to speak, to do _anything_ , but it was all to no avail.

The hands slowed in their ministrations, poked and prodded with increased hesitation – removed a plate here, disconnected a wire there.  Then they stopped, left him altogether.  Why had they gone?  _What had they found?_

He was left alone in the darkness - blind, deaf, mute, only able to feel the cold floor beneath him.  Shockwave was not a bot known for giving in to his emotions, but even _he_ couldn't stave off the panic that set in.  He was vulnerable like this, and most likely surrounded by enemies.  Once more, he tried vainly to move his limbs, to online his optic, to prove that he was still himself.

_Ping_.

_System report - left servo: offline._

_Ping._

_System report - right servo: offline._

_Ping._

_Ping Ping Ping._

Error messages began flooding in through the broken dam of his processor.  Annoying though it was, it was a sign that his systems were still functional, and even beginning to reactivate, albeit slowly.

_Ping._

_System report - right audial: functioning at 30% capacity._

A voice reached him - distant and muffled, like through water.  It was difficult to make out the words at first, but the pitch, timber, and general speed of the consonants left him with no doubt as to the speaker.  Somehow, the knowledge was comforting.

"You're gonna be all right.  Ratchet says you don't appear to have taken any major damage.  Your system is just having an unusual reaction to the forced stasis.  It'll wear off soon, I'm sure.  Just about everyone else is awake by now . . ."

The slurred words slowly became clearer and clearer to his audials, taking on shape and meaning.  He understood where he was, what had happened.  It was unpleasant, irritating, but knowledge had dispelled the terror that had taken hold, and at least he could be certain that his secret was still safe.

Blurr's words paused.  Someone, even more distant, was calling to him.

"I'll be back soon," he said, and then he was gone, leaving Shockwave alone in the darkness once more.

~~~

Blurr was not back soon.

Kliks passed - a cycle, maybe two.  Shockwave's systems were gradually restored to him.

He heard the large one, Bulkhead, revived.  Sentinel issued him some orders, and he got to work, toddling off somewhere on the other side of the room.  Meanwhile, Jetfire and Jetstorm, who had apparently been working on the lug, were assigned duties of their own, and took off.  The fingers of Shockwave's left servo came back online.

He heard Cliffjumper awaken.  The fool had no idea where he was, or even that the ship had fallen as he slept.  He hadn't taken the news well, once he'd been informed.  A brief ruckus had unfolded, which culminated in, as best as Shockwave could tell, his secretary throwing the owner of a rather flippant yet unrecognizable voice straight into Sentinel Prime.  He'd been subdued not long after that, and was currently sobbing to himself a few feet away.  Shockwave's transformation cog came back online.

He heard Jazz return from some mission he'd been sent on, confirm with Sentinel that he'd been unable to find any survivors, but _had_ been able to map out some of the terrain - lush forests gave way to rocky cliffsides, with treacherous beaches below.  Shockwave took note of this.  His right leg came back online.

Jetfire and Jetstorm were the next to return, bearing much the same story as Jazz.  Their flight abilities had given them an aerial view of their prison - an island with zero signs of civilization, robotic or otherwise.  Shockwave's vocaliser came back online.

Another cycle passed before Shockwave was finally able to online his optic, and many kliks more before he could manage Longarm's face.  His systems were 87% online, and he was impatient with waiting.  Simultaneously, he brought all visual sensors (real or manufactured) to light.  They told him little he didn't already know.

Sentinel stood in the middle of the room, shouting orders to the Jet Twins above him, who were in the process of removing the desk from the ceiling.   Bulkhead was wheedling away at the wall opposite of himself, a panel nearly his equal in size sitting discarded on the floor next to him.  Cliffjumper was still sitting nearby, his arms bound in stasis cuffs.  He'd stopped crying in favor of muttering insults, mostly directed at Sentinel Prime.  A somewhat impatient-looking Jazz was slouching against the closed door, casting glances to it every so often, as if expecting someone.  Bumblebee, whom he now recognized as the bot Cliffjumper had thrown earlier, was chatting with him, heedless of lack of attention he was receiving in turn.  He was still every bit as childish as he had been back in Autobot Boot Camp.  Disgusting.  Ratchet, meanwhile, had set up a sort of hasty medical station on the wall opposite the door, and was currently tending to a bot that Shockwave did not recognize.

Optimus Prime and Blurr were still unaccounted for.

Without as much effort as he had expected would follow such an extended period of forced-stasis, Shockwave crawled to his feet, stretching his arms and legs to their original length, if only for a moment.  It felt good.

"Ah!  Longarm Prime!  You're awake!"  Cliffjumper said with a smile on his lips, but a hollowness to his optics that belied his current state of mind.  "Can you believe it?  The ship's gone!  Like the _whole_ thing!  All those folks that we met, and like, senators and celebrities and folks we knew from before!  Swerve and his bar, and that sweet little femme with the blue frame - all gone!  It's _crazy_ ," he laughed, a sound that any other bot would've found unnerving.

"Yes, I was aware," Shockwave said, finding some difficulty in getting Longarm's voice to come out just right.  At least Cliffjumper wasn't likely to notice.  He tried again.  "Agent Blurr pulled you out of that, you know."

A twinge of lucidity came to Cliffjumper's optics.  "Blurr did?"

"Yes.  He risked his neck for you, despite his orders.  You should be grateful."  _I would have left you to die_ , went unspoken between them, though understood.  Cliffjumper's gaze fell to the floor.

"I'll be sure to thank him," he said, voice unusually tiny.  Whatever feelings of gratitude or shame he had, however, were brushed aside in favor of his typical tough-guy face.  "So sir?  I hate to bother you, but do you think you could take these cuffs off?  I think I've pretty much calmed down by now."

"I suppose so." 

Kneeling was easier than standing up had been.  Upon releasing a rather sullen Cliffjumper, who rubbed at his crushed left servo with a look of fascination, he found that he quite liked it down here on the floor.  Perhaps he'd just - stay for a moment.

"Sir?"  Cliffjumper was staring at him, a slight tilt to his helm.  Neither had moved, and as a result, he was realizing how uncomfortably close the two of them still were.  Shockwave shook Longarm's head, but didn't bother moving.

"I'm fine, Cliffjumper.  I suppose I'm still just a little drowsy.  Thought I'd perform a few recalibrations."

Cliffjumper nodded sagely.  "Ah yes, that makes sense.  But actually, I just thought you should know that Sentinel Prime is staring at you."

It was _always_ Sentinel Prime, wasn't it?  With some difficulty, he crawled back to his pedes, joints protesting far more this time than they had before.  "How can I help you, Sir?"

"So I see  you've _finally_ decided to join us.  About time."  Blunt as ever.

"My apologies.  It seems my system had an unexpected reaction to the stasis."

Sentinel cocked an optic ridge, unimpressed.  "Yes, well, since you've been asleep, much has changed.  I'm sure you'd like to know."

"Yes," Longarm sighed, not looking forward to the oncoming barrage of redundant information.  "I suppose I would."

And Sentinel was off.  "The ship exploded, first of all, which I guess you knew, but Optimus's own, personal escape pod got us away from that mess, and knocked us all out at the same time.  We've since crash-landed on some . . . organic planet."  He shuddered in distaste.  "Hopefully we don't catch the plague.  They opened the door before I had a chance to wake up.  Can you believe it?  I've already had a chat with Agent Jazz about this nonsense.  You'd think someone like _him_ would be smarter than that!"

Sometimes, it was difficult to suppress the disdain he felt for this mech.  While yes, disease brought about by organic microbes _was_ a serious issue, and one that Shockwave had seen before, he didn't see the point in ranting about it now.  Staying in the escape pod as resources slowly dwindled away would kill them just as easily, and a properly set stasis could easily ensure that they never made it home.  It was wise to take precautions, but at this point, there was little purpose.  He shrugged his shoulders.

"That is most unfortunate, Sir.  But we do seem to be holding up all right.  I'll run a few scans on our surroundings to see if there's anything we need to look out for."

"Thank you, Longarm.  This is why I like you.  Always ready to get down to business."

"I appreciate the compliment, sir."  Earlier, he'd been urging Longarm to take some time off, now he was praising his hard work.  Inconsistent fool.

"Anyway, I thought we'd try finding survivors, but so far we've had zero luck with that.  Most we've got is some rubble scattered here and there, but nothing usable."

"That is unfortunate," Shockwave nodded, feeling strangely sincere.  Ordinarily, the destruction of a luxury liner filled with wealthy and influential Autobots would have been a delight, and Shockwave wouldn't deny that he wasn't sad to see the likes of Decimus, Proteus, and all of the rest, get their comeuppance.  Yet being caught up in the mess himself was less than ideal.  His mournfulness was real, even if he was mourning for different reasons than the rest.

"Yes it is," Sentinel agreed in a rare moment of solemnity.  It was short-lived.  "But now that _you're_ awake, we should be able to progress in a different direction."

_That_ piqued his interest.  Just what did this idiot have planned?  "Oh?"

"You're the intel guy.  You're good at getting information."

"Yes, I suppose I am."

"I want you to figure out where we are.  Coordinates, Longarm."

What.  "I'm sorry?"

" Nobody's been able to match this planet with anything in our databanks.  We need to know where we are in order to get the call for help out."

Shockwave was glad that controlling Longarm's face took some degree of cognitive effort on his part.  Otherwise, the look he would be wearing, would've sent him to the hypothetical brig for insubordination.  As it was, he was barely able to keep the scorn out of his voice.  "You want me to figure this out, how?"

"We've been gathering information, like I said.  I'll send you a packet."

"How much of this planet were you able to search while I was out?"

"Most of this island."  Of course. 

"And I am to determine with this limited information which, of a nearly infinite list of possible planets, we have landed on."

"Correct."

"And how do you intend to relay this information back home?  Do we have a radio with such a broad range that I am unaware of?"

The look on Sentinel's face was almost worth being the target of his impending wrath.  Or it would've been, had Sentinel not (much to Shockwave's surprise) kept his response professional, almost calm even, albeit strained.  "One thing at a time, Longarm.  First we get our bearings, _then_ we figure out all of that technical nonsense."

"Understood," Shockwave muttered with all of the decency he could muster, turning his back on the Prime to take a seat at the newly-repositioned desk, where he pretended to examine the computer.  Fortunately, Sentinel, sensing impending productivity, let him be, instead turning his undesirable presence in Jazz's direction.  

He found himself indulging in the fantasy of ripping that ugly, ungrateful head right from that plump neck, reveling in the satisfying creak of metal grinding on metal as he crushed it between his claws.  Someday, it wouldn't be mere fantasy.  Still, as much as he hated Sentinel's plan, it at least _was_ a plan, if only in the broadest interpretation of the word.  He wanted off this rock as much as any of them, and most frustrating, did not have an answer as to how this could be accomplished.

Say by some miracle of science, he managed to work out the location of the planet.  What then?  If Autobot instruments could not locate them, then the chances they were still in Autobot territory were slim.  Decepticon space would afford him a little more leeway to work - it shouldn't be too difficult for _him_ to devise a way to get in contact with a nearby vessel, or a planet if necessary.  But maintaining his cover in such a situation would be nearly impossible, and he still had work to accomplish on Cybertron.  Returning to Megatron with it unfinished was unthinkable.

The other, more likely option, was that they had landed in neutral territory, which meant very little.  Their voyage had taken them to the vicinity of the neutral planet of Theophany, but he'd also looked at the schematics of the experimental quantum engines.  A malfunction severe enough to result in an explosion, easily could have sent them careening off through time and space (though he cared not to think of the implications of a temporal disturbance of that magnitude).  For all he knew, they weren't even in the same galaxy anymore.  Getting a lift back to Cybertron could be nearly impossible in such circumstances.  The planet's contacts beyond the reaches of its own galaxy were few and far between.

Escaping wasn't the only issue that weighed on Shockwave's mind, however.  The Orion may have been long gone, and its crew and passengers mere history as far as Shockwave was concerned, but there _was_ a chance, however slim, that the events that had transpired were still pertinent.

_Someone_ had planted those explosives, and that someone had been an Autobot - an Autobot that wished to destroy a ship of their own - filled almost entirely with influential figures.  He cast a glance at the unknown mech, still unconscious beneath Ratchet's deft hands.

He hadn't been a passenger, nor had he been a crewman.  In fact, he didn't seem to exist in _any_ of Shockwave's records, and that was an impressive feat.  Had it been him?  It was still too early to say.  He filed the thought away for future scrutiny, and continued working the problem in his mind.

The thing that baffled him the most - that he couldn't seem to wrap his head around - was the presence of the explosives that Jazz had discovered.  No matter what kind of explosives they had been, it would have been nearly impossible to deliver the damage that had been done to the Orion.  Leaving the wealth it carried on a ship that couldn't handle a little sabotage would've been folly.  It was safe enough to surmise that the damage had not come from the explosions, but a malfunction in the engines, an answer that only brought with it further questions.

Those engines were, on their own, about as likely to explode as Shockwave was - even less so, to be accurate.  They'd been tested extensively for safety.  Perceptor and Wheeljack had accounted for everything, and Shockwave had even double-checked their research (not that anybody knew about that).  Short of sabotage, those engines would have remained stable, and even sabotage would have had difficulty in pulling off such devastation.

But if the engines _had_ been sabotaged to go off, why then were the explosives necessary?  According to Sentinel, they had been disarmed?  What was their purpose?  A distraction?  A coincidence?  Had there been more than one saboteur - more than one Autobot planning such high scale assassination?  Had the criminal (criminals?) worked together?  Or individually?  Had they taken themselves out with the ship?  Or had they managed to escape?  He looked again to the unconscious stranger.  His status remained unchanged, but Ratchet was no longer wrist-deep in the lithe frame.  He was, rather, back on his pedes, stretching his back struts, and wiping condensation from his brow.

"Well, I got 'im stabilized," he said to whomever was listening, which turned out to be most of the room.  "Gonna let 'im rest for now - give his internal repairs a chance to recalibrate."

"Wonderful," Sentinel replied, voice dripping with scorn.  "While you were busy fixing some guy, everybody else managed to come to on their own."

"Of course they did," Ratchet's response was nonchalant.  "It was induced by life-support.  They were going to come to sooner or later.  It was never a matter of 'if.'  Don't try to questions my decisions.  I will stand by them every time."  The medic turned his back on a delightfully-speechless Sentinel, properly taking in the state of the room for the first time in cycles.

"With everybody back on their pedes, there were a few bots I wanted to take a look at.  Cliffjumper, was it?"

Cliffjumper rose his good servo, thought it didn't do much to get him noticed from his position on the floor.

"Over here," Shockwave assisted, motioning the medic to Cliffjumper's location, and getting up from the desk to follow.  Ratchet was quick to get down to the already-tiny mech's level."

"You made quite a ruckus earlier," he said.

"Yes sir.  Uh . . . sorry about that.  I got some anger issues."

"Yes well, I think you're excused this time.  Now I know you got a bit roughed up on the way here - I want to double-check your progress."

A quick scan with the diagnostic tool left Ratchet mumbling under his breath, all 'hmms,' and 'yesses' and 'goods.' 

"Am I all right?" Cliffjumper asked, optics wide and haunted  - afraid of what Ratchet would tell him, jittery from the earlier trauma, and already defaulting to high-strung.

"Hmm?  Yeah, yeah.  You're fine.  Healing very nicely.  Just gonna . . ." With some effort, he worked open a panel on Cliffjumper's crushed left arm, reattached some wires, hammered out some dents, and closed it once again, more smoothly this time, with a self-satisfied smile.  "There you go.  That'll be better.  You'll be back at 100% functioning capacity within a few solar cycles.  Just try to take it easy."  With another patient under his belt, the medic took a step back, wiping his servos as he scanned the room.  "Now where's the other guy?  The speedy one.  Blurr, I think?"

"Yeah, Blurr," Cliffjumper confirmed.  "What do you want with him?"

Ratchet shrugged.  "The diagnostic came back with a few problems - a couple of energon leaks, crushed plating, some internal damage - nothing too severe," he added, catching the sudden intensity that overcame Longarm's demeanor.  How had he let himself get upset over a small thing like that?  He vented a cycle, to gather his senses.

"Of course."  Hopefully he looked the appropriate mixture of sheepish and worried.  Longarm's face didn't seem to be responding as well as it should.

"It's nothing that will take much effort to repair.  The thing is, the way he's been running about, I'm afraid he might exacerbate the damage.  I want to take care of this before that happens."

"He's not here right now," Cliffjumper pointed out, drawing the attention of Shockwave and Ratchet both, back to the floor.

"What?" Ratchet sounded angrier about this than his earlier words had suggested.  Shockwave took note of this with a sinking feeling.

"Yeah, I think he and Optimus still haven't come back from their scouting mission yet."

Ratchet snapped around on his heel, stomping over to Sentinel Prime.  Shockwave, and even Cliffjumper followed.

"You sent an injured mech to scout unknown, potentially dangerous terrain?!"  Ratchet snapped, jabbing the taller bot straight in his Elite Guard insignia with an accusing finger.  "What were you thinking?  Or were you?"

Sentinel's optic ridges knit in confusion.  "I'm sorry, who are we talking about?"

"Agent Blurr, Sir," Shockwave answered with a practiced calmness.  "From my division."

Sentinel scratched his helm in thought.  "What, him?  He seemed fine to me."

"Did you even _look_ at him?"

"Yeah," Sentinel snapped.  "And he was zipping around like everything was hunky dory."  At Ratchet's unrelenting glare, however, his defiance crumpled, and he turned his head to stare at a very interesting speck on the floor.  "I mean besides, it was Optimus who ordered it in the first place.  So if you're gonna blame someone -"

Shockwave didn't want to listen to this anymore.  He turned away from that stupid face - the urge to crush it beneath his claws had become too strong to look at it.  Besides, there were more productive things to do right now.  With a sense of purpose, he marched toward the door.

"Where do you think _you're_ going?" Sentinel called out.

"I'm not leaving his fate to chance, not after fighting to get him this far.  Now if you'll excuse me-"

A white bot approached him from the side - Agent Jazz.

"Let me help.  I'm a bit more familiar with the terrain, and can cover a lot more ground."

Shockwave nodded.  "Thank you."

Before he could make it out the door, however, someone was coming in.

The red and blue chassis of Optimus Prime filled the doorway.   In his arms was something small and blue, long limbs dangling limply over those thick arms.  Energon, unmistakable in its vivid pink hue dribbled down to the floor below.  _Drip.  Drip.  Drip._ From where it came, Shockwave couldn't tell.  And he didn't care.  He felt a rage brewing within him that he hadn't properly felt since the end of the war.

"What happened?"     Strong emotions were interfering with Shockwave's ability to control his disguise.  He'd meant for the question to sound concerned.  Instead, it came out as a vicious demand.  This wasn't good.

Before Optimus even had the chance to respond, Ratchet was there, ushering the Prime and his precious cargo over to his operating corner.

Shockwave watched in silence - watched as Optimus, with surprising gentleness for an Autobot of his size, lowered the tiny, broken body to the floor, watched Ratchet run another diagnostic, watched the medic deploy his EMP generator, watched him peel apart smashed plating, loose internal mechanisms.  He'd seen this kind of thing before - a thousand times with a thousand different bots.  Why then, did he feel so frightened this time around - so hypnotized by what he, by all rights, should have been numb to?  Was that stupid, weak little Autobot worth so much?

He hadn't even noticed Optimus Prime approaching until he was standing by his side.

"I'm sorry."

Shockwave didn't respond.

"I was determined to not come back empty-handed, but there really _was_ nothing out there.  On my way back in, I found _him_ and, well . . ." He trailed off, leaving the thought unfinished.  The Prime's voice was hollow, weak - the day's events had clearly taken their toll on him.  Pathetic creature.

"I - I know he means a lot to you.  Please, I'm the one who suggested he scout.  If anything should happen . . ."  Another sentence unfinished.  The display of weakness was disgusting.  All of this was disgusting.

"What I mean to say is please, just blame me.  This is all my fault."

The words hit Shockwave distantly - he was trapped in his body once more, seeing nothing, hearing everything through an ocean.  _He_ was disgusting, weak, emotional, like one of _them_.  This could not be allowed to continue.  Distance would be required.  He turned an icy shoulder on the other Prime, allowing himself the luxury of three tiny words, laced with spite, designed to destroy.

"Yes it is."

He didn't bother looking at Optimus, reveling in his reaction - such pettiness should have been beneath him.  He shouldn't have even been tempted.  It was these Primus-damned Autobots - their soft ways were beginning to rub off on him.

He moved forward – one step, and then another, his optic focused straight ahead.  He didn't look to Cliffjumper, or Sentinel, and he _refused_ to let himself look at Blurr.  If he died, then he died, and Shockwave would live with it.  In fact, it would be best if he killed the pesky mech himself, if the chance ever presented itself.

For now, however, he would go away, outside, into the blessed solitude that awaited him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel ill, Blurr gets hurt. I think that's how that works : \


	10. Organic Graveyard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blurr scouts the island hoping for survivors. What he finds is far more than he'd bargained for.

Blurr hadn't wanted to leave.  He knew that he _had_ to - orders were orders, after all, and Optimus Prime had presented some good points, but he was hardly feeling up for any rigorous activity, and truth be told, the thought of leaving Longarm alone made him uncomfortable, though he couldn't say why.

"You all right?"  Someone was talking to him.  Jazz.  Jazz was talking to him.  Why was Jazz talking to him?

"Yeah.  I'm fine.  Well, as fine as one can be after surviving a shipwreck like that - maybe about 79% fine, at least if my internal diagnostics are to be believed, so not as good as I could be, but better than bad, if that makes any sense.  I'm more worried about Longarm and Cliffjumper and the others, to be honest."

Jazz didn't look very convinced.  "You don't gotta go, you know.  The Prime and I can get this if you -"

"I said I was fine," Blurr insisted, perhaps a bit harshly.  "And Optimus is right.  If anyone's out there, we'll be wanting to find them as soon as possible.  And nobody's as fast as I am." 

"Can't argue with that," Jazz conceded.  "Just take it easy out here.  We don't know what we could run into.  Don't hesitate to call me if you get into a tight situation."

"Of course," Blurr said with a slight twitch.  Jazz may have been the quintessential Elite Guardsmech, but that hardly meant that Blurr was incompetent.  It would have been unprofessional to fuss, however.  "I'll keep that in mind." 

He couldn't get out of there soon enough, bursting into high gear before Jazz had any time to offer more help.  The pace was maddeningly slow - he had to be careful not to exacerbate any of the injuries he'd already incurred, but slow for him was still faster than most mechs.  The fact of the matter was, running felt _good._ It was cathartic, freeing, not to mention _faster,_ and the faster he could finish out here, the faster he could get back to where he wanted to be.  He zipped through the forest, dodging trees that would've been lethal at these speeds, and kicking up a cloud of dirt and leaves and detritus behind him.  His pedes adapted to the unpredictable terrain with ease, though his shredded tires proved a slight hindrance.  He'd have to get Ratchet to patch them up once he had the chance.

He ran for miles, optics peeled for the slightest sign of something that didn't belong - any wreckage, cries for help, glistening metal where there should have been dull organic materials, but there was nothing.  The forest was still, with only the cheerful songs of the strange organic birds breaking the silence.

Several miles of travel later, the forest came to an abrupt end in a series of rocky cliffs.  Blurr had to make a sharp turn to avoid falling over the side, where he would've found himself crushed against the sharp rocks by the violent waves below.  Thank you quick reflexes. 

He followed the coastline for awhile, trying to get a feel for the geography of the landmass - island, peninsula, bay?  Looking out over the endless water, he could see nothing save for the horizon. Was this an ocean?  _Was_ there any other land out there?  It was hard to say. 

As he ran, he mapped.  Steep cliffs made up most of the area, but on occasion, he did come across a few rocky beaches, and even a stream or two that trickled from the deep within the forest.  In just under two cycles, he had established a perimeter - had mapped the entire coastline of the island.  With three cycles left before Sentinel had ordered them back, he figured he may as well get started on the interior.

The next few cycles passed with little event, and he continued to chart the land - rough and bumpy earth, filled with obstructive trees, and cavernous hillsides, but nothing of Cybertronian origin.  Soon enough, it was time to make his way back to base.  And that was when it happened, when he crossed some invisible threshold.

The air changed in an instant - slightly, barely perceptible.  It felt thicker as it moved through his vents, more cloying.  His olfactory sensors picked up the putrid scent of rotting organics.  The birds were no longer singing.  With caution, he pulled out his energy saw, and slipped forward, swift and quiet, and prepared for anything that he should encounter.

There was no great foe to face – no scheming Decepticon, nor wild beast – just more trees.  But where the trees he'd encountered up until now had been great brown brutes wearing coats of shiny green needles, dwarfing even the largest of Cybertronians, these trees were decrepit with age, covered in sickly ashen bark that snapped off at the slightest brush, their arms stripped of their verdancy.  Many looked as if they would fall over at the slightest provocation.  Blurr moved with increased care.

He heard a crunch from beneath his pede, and lifted it, curious to know what he'd stepped on.  A skeleton - the brittle bones of some organic creature, lying in splintered pieces on the ground.  The bones had been picked clean of flesh entirely, sun-bleached, and crumbling with decay, and altogether quite disgusting.  Worse yet, it were not alone.  All around Blurr were thousands of skeletons, quadrupeds, and winged-creatures, great and small - it was like a graveyard for organics.  He couldn't take a step without stepping on a corpse, so he gave up on trying not to.  He was curious now.  What was ahead?

He came upon another crater, though much smaller in size than the one the Orion had created.  A few of the surrounding trees had been uprooted, and lay in a mess all around the pit, and within it lay what was definitely some debris from the ship. 

Somehow, despite its small size - no bigger than Blurr's wheels, and despite the distance it must have fallen, the object, a chunk of polished, golden metal, was perfectly intact.  Bits and wires streamed from the ends, and within, a molten core pulsed softly, as though alive.  In fact, the only thing that appeared out of place, was a small hole carved into the device's canopy, which had clearly been filled by something before, though Blurr didn't have a guess as to what it had been.  Curiosity getting the better of him, he ran a finger around the top of the hole . . .

And that was when his world exploded again.

He was sent flying from the crater, already damaged back plating colliding with a nearby tree in a shower of bark, though the tree itself mercifully remained standing, in spite of its own weakness.  The pain was intense, more than he'd experienced in a few thousand stellar cycles, and definitely more than it had any right to be.  It was all too much for Blurr. 

The world began to grow blurry around him, and the last thing he saw was a blinding white light, before consciousness was quite unwillingly stolen from him.

~~~

Blurr came to, to the cheerful chirping of birds.  That didn't seem right; there hadn't been any birds before.  He onlined his optics, which took their sweet time adjusting to the dimness of the forest.  As far as the optic could see, there was nothing but green and brown, green and brown, no white, no grey, no bones, no crater.  Just how far had he been thrown?   What had even happened?  Was it worth investigating again?  Probably not.  He'd come back later, armed with reinforcements.  The mysterious hunk of spaceship would be better handled by Longarm, or the engineer, or maybe even Ratchet.  Blurr was _quite_ done with it.  He crawled to his pedes.

Standing was painful.  The damage he'd taken from the shipwreck had been bad enough, but now something inside of him seemed to be misaligned, leaving him with a nauseous feeling in his tanks.  That was no reason to give up, however.  Slowly for any bot, he stumbled a few steps forward, trying to focus on his surroundings.  Getting back to the ship would be a problem if he couldn't figure out where he _was._   His processor insisted that he'd only been thrown some fifty feet, but his optics were telling him a different story.  Where in the Pit was he?

The birds grew restless overhead, their cheery chirping giving way to nervous caws, and then to frantic screams.  Blurr's optics were drawn upwards as an entire flock took off in a black flurry, each of their three eyes wide and panicked.  Once the feathers had cleared, he could see something in the distance, descending from the sky.  It was huge - big enough to surely leave some kind of impact, and judging by the debris it shed every so often, it was likely in the midst of an emergency landing.  More like a crash, really.  And with alarm, he realized that it was falling in the same direction as their ship!   He had to warn someone!

"Blurr to Longarm Prime!  Are you awake?"  No answer.

"Blurr to Sentinel Prime!  This is an emergency."  Nothing.

He tried again, comming Jazz, Cliffjumper, even the Jet Twins, but nobody was answering, and as he was now, there was no chance of him making it back to base before the crash.  He returned his attention to the falling ship, optics glued to the disaster with horrid fascination.

Something was moving up there, erratically, against the flow of gravity - something bot-sized, something alive, trying to find some stability as the world ascended from below.  There was a flash of light from the stranger's back - a rocket pack, perhaps, and the bot took off into the air, in control of the situation for all of an astrosecond, before he collided sharply with a chunk of falling debris, and was sent spinning into the trees below.

It was at that moment, that Blurr realized there was something else up there, its trajectory leading it perilously close to his current location.  His processor was beginning to connect the dots - the falling hunk of space debris, the unanswered comms, the mysterious stranger, and now this . . . perhaps he hadn't been thrown as far as he'd thought - or maybe he'd been thrown even farther.  He could think it over later.  For now, it was time to leave.

Blurr took off as fast as his beaten body would allow, but it just wasn't fast enough.  He took some small consolation in knowing that he _should_ have been out of the impact zone, but he wasn't keen on finding out what had killed all of the organics, and if it would have the same effect on a Cybertronian.  He tried as hard as he could, managed to get a few feet between himself and the impending-crater, before his world was rocked once again by another stupid explosion.

~~~

Blurr drifted back to reality sporting a blinding processor ache.  He wondered where he was now.  Or when?  The initial blast had apparently thrown him back in time several cycles - at least long enough to witness their own ship crash.  Just what had that device been?  He'd never heard of anything like it before.  And moreover, what had he done to deserve this?  There wasn't a part of him that didn't hurt - his systems were running at a mere 17%.  How was he even supposed to get back to the ship like this?  He couldn't even force himself to think of an answer; it hurt too much.  It wasn't long until, once again his processor gave itself over to the pain.  He passed out.

He was in and out of consciousness for the next several cycles, following periods of blissful numbness with blinding pain.

 

At one point, he was disturbed from his recharge by the sound of someone approaching, the bones beneath their pedes crunching with a grating loudness.  _Crunch.  Crunch.  Crunch._   He wished they would stop. 

_Just go away!_

And then he realized, that it could be someone he knew - someone who could get him away from this horrible place, from another impending explosion which could very well throw him back in time _again_.  Being stuck in a temporal anomaly was hardly on his to-do list.

With some great effort, he was able to online his optics, hoping he'd be able to see the stranger from the ground without having to move.

He was.

Jazz was stalking through the once-again decrepit landscape, not even bothering with stealth.  He was walking the same path that Blurr had walked earlier (later?), which of course, meant that he was heading straight for that Primus-forsaken device.  Blurr had to warn him - Jazz was going to get himself blown up, and Blurr would surely be caught in it.

_System Report - Vocalizer: Offline._

That was just great.  He tried to wriggle in the brush, to make _some_ sort of noise, but his body just wasn't responding.  All he could do was watch in blind horror as Jazz sauntered up to the device, gave it a cursory once-over, then reached out . . .

A crash sounded in the distance, huge, earth-shattering even.  Blurr guessed it was the sound of one of the trees toppling over.

Whatever it had been, it certainly got Jazz's attention.  He was off in an instant, leaping over bones and into the tree-tops with a surprising haste.  Blurr, meanwhile, decided that being offline was much nicer than being online at the moment.  He passed out once again.

He was flying again the next time he woke.  It was a feeling that he was really getting quite sick of.  He'd never fly again, if given the choice.  Worse than the flying, however, was the subsequent crashing.  Blurr hit the ground hard, letting out a pained burst of static from his broken vocalizer.

He didn't know when he was this time, but the organics were still dead around him, so it couldn't have been too far back.  It was time to go.  Another explosion would probably kill him, not to mention keep him trapped in this stupid time loop.  He forced himself to his feet.

In retrospect, that hadn't been a very good idea.

He heard the creaking of metal more than felt it.  What he _did_ feel, was something - hot and sharp, digging into his spark chamber.  Again he screamed static, legs giving out before he had managed two steps.  His tanks were on fire, energon boiling within them - _hot!  Too hot!_   He had to get it out!  His whole body became wracked with convulsions as he hacked, and retched, and writhed, trying to dispel the burning liquid. 

The last he remembered through the agony, was crawling along the forest floor on his belly, vents on full blast, energon drooling from his mouth.  He had to find Longarm.  _He had to find Longarm.  He had to find Longarm.  He had to find Longarm . . ._

~~~

This time when he awoke, there was no itchy forest floor to greet him.  There was no birdsong, cheerful or otherwise.  He was lying on a cool metal surface, body aching, but no longer overcharged with the pain.  There were welds across his chest, torso, pauldrons, and patches on his tires.  The dents in his back, his helm, his legs, seemed to have been hammered out as well.  He'd made it back.  Someone had brought him back.  Longarm!

He onlined his optics with little effort, and tried to sit up, only to find himself held down by a firm, yet cool hand.  He'd never been so happy to see a medic in his life.

"Hold on an astrosecond, buddy.  Where do you think _you're_ going?"

"I . . ."  Blurr had no answer for that.  Instead, he gaped dumbly, mouth flapping open and closed on the search for something to say.  At least his vocalizer was working again.

"You shouldn't have left the shuttle.  You managed to exacerbate most of the injuries you picked up in the wreck, and then some!  Another few kliks, and I might not have been able to save you."

Blurr stopped struggling against the hand, and laid back, firmly abashed.  "I'm sorry."

"You'd better be."

He waited for Ratchet to remove the hand, waited as the medic turned his back, began cleaning up his tools, waited as rational thought was returned to him.  At last, he found his words.

"What happened?"

"Optimus brought you back here," he said with a shrug, focus remaining on his work.

The news was strangely disappointing to Blurr.  It was stupid.  It shouldn't have mattered _who_ had saved him, but some small part of him couldn't help but wish that it had been Longarm.  "Oh."

"I don't know _what_ kind of crazy gymnastics you were doing out there, but you somehow managed to puncture a hole in your spark chamber with one of your fuel tanks.  A few more inches, and you would've died instantly.  You young mechs, I swear."   He grumbled some more, shoving a wrench into his subspace.

"I guess that makes sense," Blurr said, devoid of his usual energy.  He'd been an idiot to get himself into such a situation.  He couldn't let it happen again - _wouldn't._   Optimus might not be there next time to pull him out, or Ratchet to repair him.

"Thank you for saving me.  I certainly hadn't intended to be so reckless, but I guess that intent doesn't really matter all that much in the end.  I did something I shouldn't have and let my curiosity get the better of me, and as a result, I ended up caught in a series of explosions.  I gotta say, I am so _done_ with explosions.  If I never see another explosion again, it will be too soon."

Ratchet turned, giving him a long, scrutinizing glance.  "You should recharge.  Your internal repairs have their work cut out for them.  And thank Optimus."

"Huh?"

"Thank Optimus.  For saving your life.  He's been really upset over this.  Blames himself for some reason."  He shook his head in distaste, letting a grumpy gust of air pass his lips.

"Oh.  Understood, Sir."  Thank Optimus.  That was fair enough.  A quick glance around the room, however, was enough to show that the Prime was not currently present.  And nor was the other Prime he wanted to see.

"Where is everyone?"

Ratchet turned back from sorting through a pile of spare engine bits with a sigh.  "More scouting.  Those jets are out over the water, trying to figure out if there's any other major landmasses nearby.  Jazz and Optimus are doing a more thorough search of the island, and Bumblebee went with them.  Bulkhead's over there," he gestured towards one of the walls, "trying to get the energon distillery back online, and I don't know what Sentinel thinks he's doing, but whatever it is, Cliffjumper is off helping him."

"And Longarm?"

Ratchet shrugged.  "Who knows where he's gotten himself off to.  He left a little after you were brought in, is my understanding.  Hasn't been back yet, and any comms we try to send his way keep getting bounced back to Cliffjumper."

"Sounds like him," Blurr muttered.  It wasn't news that he was happy to hear.  He'd wanted his commander to save him, or to at least be by his side when he'd woken up.  It was silly, he supposed.  It wasn't like Longarm had any obligation to attend to him, and he was a busy mech to begin with.  Blurr knew Longarm - knew that he was undoubtedly searching for a way off this rock, or something equally productive, but why had he needed to isolate himself from everybody else in order to do so?  He'd never been a social mech, but wasn't it more logical to stick together in such uncertain circumstances?

Come to think of it, _that_ was probably the reason for this unprecedented clinginess of his.  He'd been through a lot in the past solar cycle (had it only been _one_?).  Was it any wonder that his mind was in such a state?

Ratchet was right; he needed rest.  He couldn't worry about Longarm right now.  The Prime was a capable mech - he could take care of himself.  Blurr would find him once Ratchet gave him the clearance to get up and move, and Longarm would be glad to see him, safe and sound and not killing himself faster by forcing an injured frame past its limits like some brash, young idiot.  And together, they'd find a way back home.  After all, if anyone could triumph in the face of such adversity, it was Longarm.

Feeling strangely content, all things considered, Blurr offlined his optics, and fell into a deep recharge, of his own volition this time, with a smile on his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't how it was meant to go, but I didn't want four chapters in a row that began with somebody waking up. Let's see where this new direction takes us.


	11. Temporal Bomb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bumblebee talks, Jazz listens. Could it get any better than this?

The atmosphere of the scouting party was a bit gloomier than Bumblebee had been hoping for.  He had volunteered for the mission mostly to spite Sentinel Prime, who had ordered him to 'Sit down and shut up,' when the time had come to dole out orders.  The fact that Jazz was also going was just a happy coincidence.  Now if only he could do something about Optimus.

The Prime was downright morose, giving commands with a sad apathy.  'Stick together,' he'd said.  'The island is too dangerous to explore alone.' 'Stay away from that cliff.'  'Let me go first.'  'Jazz, don't let him out of your sight.' 

As far as Bumblebee was concerned, Prime was taking the whole Blurr situation _way_ too seriously.  It wasn't like he had died or anything . . . probably.  Bumblebee trusted Ratchet to fix him, at the very least.  No big deal.

"Watch your step, Bumblebee," Optimus's voice came as a warning.  Bumblebee paused, his pede still in the air.  He'd almost stepped on some kind of nasty organic structural supports.  Optimus was worried about _that_?  What a joke!

"Gee thanks.  I don't know _how_ I would've survived if I'd crushed one of those."  To Bumblebee's surprise, Optimus accepted his insubordination without comment.  He really _was_ far-gone.

"This is where you found Blurr, ain't it?"  Jazz suggested, crouching down to examine a hunk of - former creature.  Optimus nodded.

"Right over there."  He pointed towards a knocked over pillar – tree.  They were called 'trees.'

"Everything sure is funny-looking," Bumblebee commented, hoping to stay a part of the conversation.

"Everything's dead, actually."  Jazz got back on his feet, stepping forward, heedless of the corpses, or whatever.  Bumblebee followed his lead.  Whether or not Optimus chose to join them was his own business.

They came upon a clearing, another crater at its center, though quite a bit smaller than the one their escape pod had made.  There were little more than fragments of metal within.  Jazz stared into the pit with a distinct frown on his faceplates.

"What's up?"

The frown was gone, replaced with a smile that was charming as ever.  Whatever was wrong couldn't have been too bad after all.  "I passed by here earlier, but there was something here, a hunk of metal.  Gone now.  Dunno if it blew up and these little shards are bits of it, or . . . well anyway, it probably ain't no big thing.  Nothin' we need be worryin' about anyway."

He gave Bumblebee's shoulder an affectionate clap, before passing by, back the way they came.  Jazz was _totally_ into him.  Bumblebee couldn't keep the giddy grin from forming on his lips.  He turned to follow in Jazz's footsteps, trying very hard to refrain from gleeful skipping.  Skipping wasn't cool.

"Anyway, I say we call it for the day.  We got a good half the island mapped out.  That'll keep Sentinel off our backs."

Optimus's gloomy frown somehow became even gloomier; the shadow of despair that hung over him was practically visible.  "No energon deposits."

A shrug from Jazz.  "Alien planet, my mech.  No guarantee we gonna find anything - shame to make a mountain of it."

"And Longarm . . ."

"You worried about Longarm?  Don't freak.  He's a Prime too.  Mech can take care of himself.  'Sides, he's had time to cool an' all, but if he ain't come back, then he probably don't wanna see us right now, ya dig?  Guy's always been a loner.  He's probably just avoidin' the crowds."

Bumblebee could listen to Jazz talk all day, reveling in that smooth voice, the unique speech patterns, the wise words.  He was Cybertronian perfection.  "I agree with Jazz.  You can't deny he's got some good points!"

Out-argued and outnumbered, Optimus couldn't seem to find much reason to protest.  With a resigned sigh, he turned around, leading the way back.

Optimus was too busy brooding his way through life to be much fun on the trek, but Bumblebee didn't want to chat with his former boss anyway.  Why would he, when Jazz was right next to him?

"I know I said this before, but thanks for letting me come along."

Jazz flashed him a winning smile.  "Sure thing.  I know you wanna help - drive a mech mad sittin' around doin' nothing."  Bumblebee expected him to continue the chat, or to offer him some other sign of affection, but to his surprise, Jazz did neither.  Instead, he turned his helm straight ahead, and frowned, deep and thoughtful.

"What's up?"  Bumblebee didn't like to be ignored.

"Just thinkin' 'bout that crater - how everything around it was dead."

"Yeah, that's pretty creepy."  A thought struck Bumblebee.  "Do you think it was a bomb?"

The light behind Jazz's visor flickered quizzically.  "A bomb?"

"Yeah, like some kinda poison bomb, or like - organic creatures age weird, yeah?  Maybe like, a super aging bomb, or - or, an organic-plating-eating bomb!"

"I believe they call it 'flesh.'"

Bumblebee nodded with enthusiasm.  "Yeah, like that!  A flesh-eating bomb!"

Jazz rubbed his chin, considering the possibilities.  "Maybe . . ."

Bumblebee liked that about Jazz.  Other bots would've dismissed his ideas outright - told him he played too many games, read too many comic tablets.  But Jazz - he actually listened, considered Bumblebee's suggestions like they had merit. 

"You were friends with that engineer, Bulkhead, yeah?" Jazz's mind seemed to be far away, still trying to fit together the pieces of some great puzzle.  Bumblebee was only happy to help.

"Best friends!" he gushed, ready to go on about their amazing friendship, and all of the crazy shenanigans they'd get up to together, but he stopped himself short.  _Were_ they best friends?  He hadn't had much time to talk to Bulkhead since he'd gotten them in trouble back on the ship.  Bulkhead had avoided him up until their punishment, and Ratchet hadn't let them chat it out while fixing up his office, then the ship had crashed, and _then_ Sentinel had had Bulkhead working to fix their pod from the moment he'd come out of stasis.

Was he still angry?  Had he really just been busy?  Or was he avoiding Bumblebee on purpose?  It was uncomfortable to think about it, so Bumblebee tried not to.  He was in the middle of a conversation!  If he kept dwelling on sad things, then it wouldn't take Jazz long to notice the downward cast of his optics, the slump to his shoulder pauldrons . . .

"You alright there?"  The smooth, warm sounds of Jazz's voice pulled him back to reality.

"Sorry.  A lot's happened, I guess.  But yeah, we're close."  He wished that he could see Jazz's optics behind the visor.  It _looked_ like the other mech was staring at him, judging, or suspicious maybe, but with his optics hidden behind that visor, it was impossible to say for certain.  An awkward smile broke out on Bumblebee's face.  "Is that a bad thing?"

Jazz nearly stopped in his tracks, at the suggestion.  "What?  No, no.  I see what you're sayin.'  Just took a klik to register."  He shifted back into formation, calm as before.  "I was gonna ask if you could introduce me - figure he might know a thing or two about our bomb, yeah?"

"What?  Why would he know about that?"  Bulkhead may have been clumsy, but he wasn't exactly a demolitions expert.  Now _there_ was an idea.

"Because I think that bomb was part of the ship's engine."

"Excuse me?"  Optimus had stopped dead in his tracks, turning to fix Jazz with his trademarked boring, serious leader-mode look.  Bumblebee had never been fond of that one.  "What makes you think that?"

Jazz shrugged.  "Bumblebee mentioned that bit about the temporal bomb, and it got me thinkin.'  The ship had some special engines yeah?  Time mumbo jumbo or whatever."  At Optimus's scathing look, he added, "Yes, I know about that.  I know a lot of things I shouldn't - things I will be talkin' about neither here nor now.

"Anyway, theory don't stand if it _was_ a poison or flesh-eatin' bomb, but if what we saw was carved by some temporal disturbance?  _That_ might be worth something.  And we dropped in from the sky shedding bits of ship everywhere.  Couldn't it be then, that some of those bits was engine bits?  And that those very same _temporally-screwed_  bits coulda caused that mess?  I mean, we _did_ find some shards of metal at the scene, and these digs ain't exactly swimming in the stuff."

Bumblebee felt inordinately proud of himself.  Had his observation really solved the mystery?  Optimus didn't seem to think so.

"Wasn't the initial explosion near the engine room?  I can't imagine there was enough of the engine left to have a chunk land here, not to mention the fact that the engine room was not exactly close to the captain's cabin.  We deployed, and based on what I've seen, we didn't take a whole lot of the ship with us."

"All valid points, Sir, but it's worth lookin' into, if we ain't got nothin' else to do."

Optimus frowned, abashed.  "I suppose you're not wrong.  Thank you, Agent Jazz.  I shall look into the matter with Bulkhead."  And then he was back in his former position, a few steps ahead, back struts straight, broad shoulders stiff.  Bumblebee thought he was trying to hide his crippling self-doubt behind a facade of professionalism, and doing a rather poor job of it.  Why bother hiding anyway?  It wasn't gonna do anybody any good.

He had no patience for that sort of thing.  Talking with Jazz was more interesting anyway. 

"You really liked my idea?"

"It wasn't half bad."

Bumblebee beamed brighter than the sun in return.

"But do me a favor, yeah?  When you get the chance?"

"A favor?"

"Go talk things out with Bulkhead."

Bumblebee cocked his head.  "With Bulkhead?  I'll try, but I don't think I know what questions to ask.  Only thing I knew about the engines was -" he cut himself off, sharply.  It probably didn't matter now, but an oath to secrecy was still an oath to secrecy.  "Well, it doesn't really matter, I guess."

Jazz laughed, and for a second, Bumblebee felt affronted, before he remembered - this was _Jazz_.  Not a cruel gear in _that_ one's body.

"We'll get to business when it comes time for that, but I was talkin' about your relationship.  Seems to me like it's gotta be hard, bein' surrounded by all these military mechs who think you ain't worth nothin.'  Best to have someone who gets you, yeah?  And it'd be a shame to let your friendship die during such a hard time."

He was right, of course.  Bumblebee couldn't deny that.  But the trouble with sitting down for a spark-to-spark with his former best friend, was finding the time to get him alone, what with Sentinel monopolizing his every waking moment.  Still, he wasn't about to say 'no' to Jazz.

"Yeah.  I'll do that."

"Good boy."

~~~

Bumblebee didn't get the chance to talk with Bulkhead for the rest of the night.  When they got back to base, Bulkhead was hunched over his hole in the wall, deep in concentration.  Bumblebee knew from experience that interrupting would only make Bulkhead mad, so he spent the rest of the evening clinging to Jazz like a shadow.  If the other mech was annoyed, he didn't say anything.  Besides, it wasn't like Bumblebee was _completely_ worthless.  If there was one thing he excelled at, after all, it was finding entertainment. 

He'd filled his subspace with an assortment of toys and games.  Optimus had complained when Bumblebee deployed them, but Jazz, at least, seemed amused.  Eventually, they even got Cliffjumper, and a very beat Ratchet to join them in a game of Full Stasis.

Bumblebee grew tired early on, and was the first to retire for the night.

No one had recharged of their own intention since landing on this world, and there was only one recharge slab, which Ratchet had claimed for his patients, once it had been retrieved from the ceiling.  No one had seen fit to argue with him, though Sentinel had very much looked like he'd wanted to.

The situation, however, was left without a whole lot of options for places to recharge.  Bumblebee had never gone without a slab before; the idea of sleeping on the ground made him uncomfortable, and just the thought of sleeping in alt mode left him with a kink in his back strut.  What was a mech to do?  He shuffled, nervously.

"You good over there?"  Jazz called out.

Bumblebee panicked.  Jazz couldn't know what was wrong.  He was Elite Guard!  Bumblebee was willing to bet that Jazz had slept on the ground a million times before - didn't see anything weird about it.  If he found out about Bumblebee's reservations, he would surely think him childish - if he didn't already.  "Y-yeah!  I'm great!  I always do this before I recharge.  Pacing, that is.  Hard to break old habits, y'know?"

That had had the opposite of the intended effect.  Instead of leaving him to panic in peace, Jazz was now sauntering over for a chat.  _Scrap scrap scrap!_

"What's eatin' you?  Is this your first time rechargin' away from the berth?"

How was this guy so perceptive?!  Bumblebee could feel his face turning pink beneath that obscured gaze.  "No!  Of course not!"

"My bad."  Jazz waved his hand in casual apology. 

"I _did_ go to boot camp, you know!"  See?  He wasn't just some civilian!

"Oh yeah?  What were you aiming for?"

Bumblebee tried to hide his expressive optics - they damned him too easily.  _Why_ had he thought this line of conversation would be a good idea?

"Elite Guard," he mumbled.  He was embarrassed.  _HE_ was _embarrassed_!  That didn't happen!  But Jazz was so cool and smart and skilled - he was the embodiment of everything Bumblebee wanted to be, and looking at him only served to highlight just how far away he was from achieving his dream.

"That's great!  Shootin' for the top."  Jazz hadn't made fun of him.  He didn't know why he'd thought the mech who had shown him nothing but affection would do such a petty thing, but he wouldn't have been the first.  But Jazz wasn't like that.  He was legitimately interested in Bumblebee's life story.  It warmed his spark to think about.  "Why'd you leave?"

And then he'd gone and ruined a good thing with those three words.

Bumblebee's optics flashed over to Sentinel, who was busy chatting with gloomy old Optimus.  "Actually, I don't wanna talk about this anymore."

"Fair enough," Jazz responded.  

And then, standing there, mere feet from the most perfect mech he'd ever laid eyes on, Bumblebee was struck with a really stupid idea.  Jazz had been so acquiescing so far, and certainly never mean-spirited.  What was the harm in asking?

"Er, Jazz?"

"Yup."

"So this is actually kinda weird to say - super embarrassing really, but - uh, you were right earlier - about me, I mean."

Jazz tilted his head ever so slightly, waiting for elaboration.  Sure, _now_ he couldn't take a hint.

"Well, I mean - what I'm saying is - I got kick - well, I left boot camp pretty early on.  Never got to do any filed training or anything.  So yeah, you were right.  This recharging situation is kinda weird for me."

"Ah," came the inscrutable reply.

"And I'm kinda nervous."

"That's fair."  Come _on_ already!  Did he have to spell it out? 

"And I was wondering if maybe, you wouldn't mind recharging with me?"  There.  He'd said it.  Now to wait for the inevitable denial . . .

"Okay."

"What?"  Had his audials glitched?  Was this a joke?  Jazz sure didn't look like he was joking.  Jazz was willing to _recharge_ with _him_!That was like, second stellar cycle levels of romance!  Bumblebee's confidence burst through the ceiling.  "I mean, great!"

"'Fraid I won't be able to stay long though.  Promised Ratchet I'd keep an optic on the patients so he could get some rest.  Sure you wouldn't rather with Bulkhead?"

Bumblebee frowned, and shot a glance at his friend, who was still plugging away at the wall.  "Yeah, I'm sure."

"All right then.  Just for tonight."

The rest happened so fast, Bumblebee could barely process it - or maybe it was moving at normal speeds, but he was just too giddy to notice.  One moment they were standing there, just chatting away, then the next thing Bumblebee knew, they were on the ground, with him curled up against Jazz, who sat stoically with one arm wrapped around the little bot.  Surely there had been some in-between steps, but who cared about that?  All Bumblebee knew was bliss as he dozed off, basking in the other mech's warmth, his engine running a contented purr.

~~~

Bumblebee was alone when he woke.  Judging by the bustle that permeated the room, most of the others were up and about already.  Jazz himself was standing near Ratchet's sleeping patients, chatting with Bulkhead, apparently about something serious, based on Bulkhead's thoughtful expression.  Upon noticing Bumblebee's movement, however, Jazz smiled and  waved him over.  Bumblebee could hardly refuse an invitation like that, now could he?

"Morning Bee.  How you recharge?"

"Can't complain," Bumblebee said with proud grin.  It wasn't exactly true.  Sleeping flat on the ground had done no favors for his joints, and there was definitely a funny twinge in his neck, but he was still bathing in the residual joy of last night.  However, it was with complete sincerity that he added, "Thanks for, y'know, doin' that for me."

"Ain't no problem," Jazz laughed.  "I can't stick around long, but I thought the two of you might like to chat, yeah?"

Bumblebee's optics slid over to Bulkhead, who was staring back with a guilty frown.  He recalled the last thing Bulkhead had said to him - _'Shut up.'_ A lot had happened since then.

"Yeah, I'd like that," Bumblebee agreed.

"Catch y'all later then," Jazz said with a wave.  "And Bulkster, get back to me if you got something."

"Uh yeah.  I'll uh - let you know." 

The two sat in silence for a moment, watching Jazz's retreating back, before either got up enough courage to speak.

"So . . ."

"I uh-"

They both began simultaneously.  Bumblebee backed off with a nervous chuckle.  "You go first."

"Sorry."  Bulkhead scratched the back of his head with a massive digit."

"No problem," Bumblebee laughed.  "Go ahead."

"No," Bulkhead protested.  "I mean, I'm sorry, Little Buddy."

Bumblebee's optics shuttered of their own accord, displaying their confusion.  "Oh."

"I was mad at you.  Really mad.  I did everything in my power to help you get that job, you know.  And when you went and left our post unguarded like that - to go for a joy ride, no less , well, it felt like - I dunno, like a betrayal.  Like you took all that I'd done, and spit it right back in my face."  He clenched his fists for a second, then released them, draining the tension from his frame at the same time.

"But then, well, everything happened, and I still can't wrap my head around it, but I know that we both could be dead right now, I mean, we still could die, I guess, and I just - I didn't want you to die thinking I was mad at you, and I don't want to die _being_ mad at you - uh, does that make sense?  Sorry.  I think I got a bit carried away."

Bumblebee grinned.  "No, it's perfect!  I was really worried there for a bit.  I didn't know if you were avoiding me, or  . ."

"I kinda wanted to talk to you sooner, but well - everything's just happened so fast here.  I know my way around a ship's engine, so Sentinel Prime's got me doing all kinds of technical stuff that has nothing to do with a ship's engine.  I don't really know what I'm doing, to be honest, but I figure it's got to get done, and I have the best chance of figuring it out . . . probably."  He looked to his hole in the wall with a resigned wibble to his protruding jaw.

"Hey now," Bumblebee hopped up, patting his friend's arm in consolation.  "You've fixed things _way_ more complicated than a - what is that?"

"An energon distillery," Bulkhead mumbled.

"Than an energon distillery!"

"I know," he responded with an irritated growl.  Had Bumblebee just insulted him?  Try again!

"What I mean is, just take your time.  You're not as dumb as everybody thinks."  Bulkhead's frown deepened.  Scrap.  "I mean, you're not dumb at all!  Pit, you're a fragging genius!  I don't think I could even fit half of the things you know into _my_ processor!"

"Uh, thanks?"  There.  Much better.

"So you just . . . do what you gotta do, and if you need me, I'll just . . . be around, not really doing anything."  He wasn't necessarily _trying_ to make this apology about him, but he couldn't deny that his lack-of purpose still stung.

"Well," Bulkhead said, smiling for the first time in who knew how long.  "I could always use an assistant."

The grin that lit up Bumblebee's face was enough to rival the smiles he'd been giving Jazz all of yesterday.  He really didn't deserve a friend as good as Bulkhead.  A thought struck him.

"Hey, you hungry?"

"A little," Bulkhead admitted, rubbing his round belly.  "But Sentinel's rationing the energon cubes."

"No problem," Bumblebee smirked.  "He can hardly let the guy fixing up the place go hungry, now can he?  I'll talk him out of some."  If there was one thing Bumblebee knew how to do, other than entertain, it was get his way.  And really, Bulkhead's grateful smile was worth dealing with Sentinel Prime a million times over.

He crossed the room towards the Prime's claimed corner, where he had already amassed a small stockpile of energon cubes, passing by Ratchet's medical station in the process.  He hadn't expected it to become a big deal, and yet . . .

One moment, he was casually strolling by a couple of conked-out invalids, the next, he found himself in a chokehold, with a curved blade digging into the vital energon lines of his throat.

"I don't want any trouble," the stranger's deep voice called out, as several mechs stood frozen, weapons half drawn.  "Let me leave in peace, and no one will have to get hurt."

Some days, it didn't pay to be Bumblebee.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Figured I'd go ahead an add Bumblebee/Jazz to the tags, even though it's (at least for the moment) one-sided. Gotta get Jazz another chapter.
> 
> (Guy was supposed to wake up like, two or three chapters ago. Took him long enough >


	12. A Rude Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz does his best to calm Prowl, before he ends up with a bloodbath on his hands.

Jazz had known that Prowl was a bit of an antisocial mech - he'd been through a lot, had led a colorful life rife with pain and solitude.  When Prowl had approached him, he'd agreed to help out of pity, out of solidarity, and even a sliver of respect for what he was trying to accomplish.

He'd of course, considered the possibility that Prowl would be discovered, cornered, forced to the wrong end of Sentinel's battle lance.  He just hadn't expected the situation to play out in this exact manner.

Prowl stood in front of Ratchet's makeshift med station, shielding himself with Bumblebee, a blade at the small bot's primary energon line, keeping him from struggling too much.  The rest of the room, in contrast remained poised to strike – Optimus with his axe, Sentinel with his lance, Ratchet with his magnets, even Cliffjumper stood ready to throw a punch.  Only Bulkhead held back, though his massive fists shook with his indecision.  Jazz understood that feeling. 

Bulkhead didn't want Bumblebee hurt, and Optimus and Ratchet were probably not about to provoke Prowl further without good reason.  Cliffjumper and Sentinel on the other hand - especially Sentinel . . . Jazz would have to find a way to step in soon if he didn't want a small massacre on his hands.  And what better action to take than stalling for time?

"Whoa now," he said, raising his hands in a gesture of placation.  "You don't want trouble.  We don't want trouble.  Why not put the little guy down, and back away?"

Prowl's attention shot to Jazz, recognition dawning on his faceplates, followed shortly by the gradual onset of an expression that Jazz could only describe "oh shit."

"We don't negotiate with terrorists, Jazz," Sentinel growled, taking a step towards Prowl, who retreated, tightening his grip on Bumblebee.

"Hey, watch it!" the little bot complained.  Jazz had to admire how ballsy he was, even if his attitude wasn't currently doing him any favors. 

"Negotiating's one thing, Sir, but we should be tryin' to avoid a blood bath, don't you think?  Especially in light of recent events.  'Sides, that bot don't look like no terrorist to me.  _Terrified_ , maybe, but -"

Sentinel, of course, just wouldn't listen to any reasoning save for his own.  "Go on, tell me.  Does any bot even know this guy?"

No one spoke up, not even Jazz.  If Sentinel found out the nature of their relationship, Jazz would lose all of the bargaining power he'd worked so hard to gain, and in a situation like this, that wouldn't do anyone any favors. 

"I thought so."  Sentinel's mouth spread into a wide smirk.  "Go on then, tell me he's not the one who planted those explosives."

"What?" Prowl faltered, nearly relinquishing his hold on Bumblebee.

"Total stranger, obviously some kind of _Cyberninja_ , shows up outta nowhere.  No one knows him.  Don't you think it's a little fishy?"

Ratchet and Optimus didn't look entirely convinced.  Unfortunately, the same could not be said of Cliffjumper.

"Yeah!" he agreed with enthusiasm.  "What kind of sicko goes for a hostage first thing after waking up?"  The bot _did_ have a point.  Prowl really had shot himself in the pede with this one.

"Just because he's a criminal, doesn't mean he's responsible for what happened to the Orion."  Finally, someone was speaking sense, in this case Ratchet.  Unfortunately, the hateful glare on his face led little weight to his words.  It was again up to Jazz to deflate the situation.

"Hey bot, what's your name?"   Sentinel turned to cast a suspicious glance at Jazz, but said nothing to interfere.

Prowl too, appeared confused by the question.  "Prowl," he said, optics not straying from Sentinel Prime. 

_[Prowl, are you listening?]_  Jazz relayed over a private comm frequency, even as he continued on with the small talk.  "Prowl, eh?  And where are you from, Prowl?"

"Praxus."

_[Yes, I hear you.  What are you planning?]_

Nice place, Praxus."  Jazz began edging to the side, subtly enough to go unnoticed; Prowl's focus hadn't strayed from the Prime.

"Jazz, what is the point of all this?"  Sentinel was getting tired of his stalling.  Just a little longer . . .

"Gettin' there, Sir."

_[I'm gonna attack you.  Not too hard.  Play it up, yeah?  Then let Bumblebee go and make a break for the door.  I'll follow you.]_

_[Understood.]_

"Still livin' there?" he asked, continuing to inch to the side, circling around Prowl. 

Prowl's optics narrowed behind his visor, and he at last diverted his attention from Sentinel to look at Jazz.  "No, Iacon.  And I think I'm quite done answering your weird questions.  I just want out of here."  At last, he turned to face Jazz, an action that left his back exposed to Optimus, no doubt intentionally.  It was time.

Jazz lunged half a second after Optimus (and unexpectedly, Bulkhead), but his speed got him to the target first, striking out at his weapon arm with his nunchaku, as Prowl had been in the midst of turning to defend himself from the Prime, and simultaneously knocking him away from a very startled Bumblebee, who tumbled into Bulkhead's protective grasp.

Prowl was back on his pedes the moment he was down, zipping down the clear path Jazz had engineered to the door, and Jazz didn't hesitate to pursue.  If any of the others came after, it made no difference.  Unless Blurr happened to make a full recovery in the next few kliks, or the Jet Twins suddenly dropped in from the sky, no one would be able to keep up with two, well-trained Cyberninjas.

He chased Prowl through the forest for a half-cycle, through trees, and over beaches, and across hillsides, until he was absolutely certain that he'd put enough distance between them and any potential followers.  He stopped his pursuit at the top of an inland, cavernous cliff.  There wasn't much foliage to hide in, and from such a high vantage point, they would have a clear view of any followers.  It would be difficult for others to sneak up on them unnoticed.

"Hold up."

Prowl slid to a stop, knocking a few pebbles to the ground below.  "I suppose you want me to thank you again," he said, once he'd decided that he felt like speaking again.

Jazz ignored the comment.  "What was that back there?  What in Primus's name made you think attacking a civilian the moment you came online was a bright idea?"

Prowl glared very intently at the ground, ashamed to have made such a blunder.  "That was . . . an unwise move on my part, I admit."

"So . . .?" Jazz prompted, curious as to the reasoning behind such a close call.

"So I onlined my optics, and the first thing I see is an unconscious, _pretty_ mech, lying there in what looked to me like restraints, and which I now realize were probably welds.  I didn't recognize anyone, didn't know where I was, and grossly misinterpreted the situation.  I am aware of this."

"You thought you'd got caught up in a bot trafficking ring, that it?"  Prowl's angry silence was answer enough.  What _was_ he going to do with this bot?  He let out a frustrated sigh.  "I see where you're comin' from, but this damage is gonna be damn hard to mend."

"Who says I want it mended?" Prowl spat back.  "I have no intention of facing down military mechs after the ship that I was a stowaway on crashed.  There's nothing for me down that route, save captivity, and perhaps execution."

It was a fair point, but Jazz was prepared to counter it.  "Who says you got a choice?"

Not unexpectedly, Prowl stiffened, shifting the weight he carried on his pedes for optimal escape, and though he didn't outright bolt, he did appear to be inching backwards. 

"Look, I'm not sayin' I'm gonna turn your sorry aft in.  I have no doubt, after the things I've done, if you fall, I'm goin' down too.  And 'cause I don't want _that_ to happen, I can hardly force you to do nothin' you don't want."  He was hardly happy for this fact.  If he'd known the ship would be the victim of severe sabotage, Jazz would've turned Yoketron's alleged successor away without a second thought.  Probably should have, regardless.

"But facts is facts.  The twelve of us is stranded here, on some tiny-ass island on some backward planet in the far reaches of nobody-knows-where.  You avoid the group, and they gonna come lookin' for you, especially after that stunt you pulled.  And you may be good, but you can't avoid 'em forever.  The forces you faced in there today weren't half so deadly as they coulda been.  Now, unless you got a multi-light-year-spanning signal beacon, your best bet for survival is sticking with me."

"In chains."

"Not necessarily," Jazz shrugged his.  "There's some politics to be played, but I think I can talk Optimus down.  If he gives you a pass, then Ratchet and Bulkhead will.  Bumblebee, the one you decided to make your own, personal shield, will be a bit harder, but I'm sure he'll cave if I work 'im, and Blurr's a reasonable mech.  Provided Longarm doesn't come back and tell him otherwise, you've got more'n half the ship on your side.  Even Sentinel can't argue with those numbers."

Prowl was still inching away.  He wasn't convinced.  That was fine.  Jazz had other tactics at his disposal.

"Okay, look.  You're this strange mech, come outta nowhere, nobody knows you.  Sentinel was pretty stuck on that earlier, yeah?  And we just come away from some disastrous act of sabotage.  They're gonna blame you, whether you did it or not, because you're an easy target."  He paused to consider a thought that had been nagging at him for awhile now.  "You didn't, did you?"

"What, sabotage the ship?" Prowl huffed, folding his arms.  At least he'd stopped retreating.  "Of course now.  I was trying to get to Hedonia, was close enough to taste it.  Why would I sabotage myself like that?  Destroying my only means of transportation?  I don't care about Autobot politics and power struggles - all I want is to get Master Yoketron back."

"Fair enough."  Jazz waved his hands in an effort to placate the angry bot.  "Just had to be sure. 

"Anyway, my point is, _they_ ain't gonna believe your story so easy, 'cause they don't know you, and don't got no reason to care for you.  Right now, you're a convenient scape goat for all of their fear and anger, and that's _not_ a good place to be in.  This is why we gotta stick together.  Way things is standin', anyone findin' themselves cut off from the group is like to have an angry mob on their tailpipe before long, what with Sentinel Prime in charge.  Come back with me.  I'll come up with a story to get 'em off your back.  Then all you gotta do is play nice - make friends if you can, 'cause I ain't havin' anyone else die on my watch."  He held out a hand to Prowl, an offering of peace.

Prowl stared at the appendage for a long moment, long enough for Jazz to worry that his words hadn't gotten through. 

In the short time they'd known each other, Jazz had come to realize that Prowl's loner-nature was his biggest defining trait, which out here would spell his doom.  Anyone who was different was an enemy.  He'd fought to keep Bumblebee as part of the group, he'd fight for Prowl too, whether or not the other bot agreed to it.

But it didn't come to that.  Prowl strode back to Jazz of his own accord, though ignored the offered hand.  Jazz was fine with that.  He didn't care if Prowl was thrilled with the notion, so long as he was alive.

"Clearly it's in my best interest to go, but don't think for a second that I'll play nice with that militant tyrant, or any of the rest of them."

Jazz shook his head, and vented deeply.  The attitude needed work, but it was better than nothing, and _that_ he could work with.  Prowl would come around soon enough, and once he'd cleared that hurdle, the others would be far more eager to accept him.  In the meantime, they would return to camp and hope for the best.  Jazz had his work cut out for him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I may have, at some point, conflated Prowl's backstory with IDW Drift's. Whoops. Oh well, gotta love AUs.
> 
> Prowl should be interesting to write, as his characterization as of right now is supposed to be more in-line with pre-series Prowl than anything. Let's see how far we can develop him in a set of circumstances completely unlike those of the show.
> 
> Why are Jazz's chapters always so short? D :  
> The next chapter shouldn't be, at least. Quite the opposite in fact.


	13. Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blurr is back on his feet, but far-from fully-recovered. He desperately searches for a place to fit in, now that his primary purpose has been denied him.

Blurr awoke to pain in his circuits - burning, screaming agony, experienced for but an instant, but to his unique processor, the horrific sensation extended far beyond the realm of the tolerable.  He hadn't thought that anything could be as bad as waking to an explosion, but this came pretty close.  What pushed it over the edge, however, was onlining his optics, only to see Sentinel Prime's leering face but a few feet away.

His mind was instantly awake and at attention the moment he registered those skeezy blue optics, but his body followed at a maddeningly slow pace.  Carefully, he sat up, drawing closer to eye level with the Prime – he realized quickly that he was on a recharge slab now; he must have been out for a while.

"Sir?" he began, trying to think of an appropriate way to say what he wanted to.  He settled on, "What are you doing?"

"I am watching you recharge."  Just like that.  No lies or pretense, or even an explanation for the uncomfortable behavior.

"Forgive me for being rude, Sir, but _why_?"

"Why, Agent?  We already had one coma patient pop back online only to immediately try to kill someone today.  Jazz says 'Oh Sentinel Prime, he was just wiggin' out,' but you and I both know that fear is an explanation, not an excuse, don't we Agent?"

Sentinel's answer had done nothing to calm the agony of that awakening.  If anything, he was more unnerved than before.  But he couldn't let his superior know that.  "Yes, Sir."

"I mean, just think of poor, traumatized Bumblebutt."

"Bumblebee?" he glanced towards the small, yellow bot, who was miming some show of valor to Bulkhead, as the latter worked away at the ship's controls.  He didn't _look_ all that traumatized.

"One moment, he's minding his own business, the next, he's dancing with the Necrobot."

This line of conversation was in dire need of direction.  Blurr heaved a heavy vent and said, "Was there something you wanted from me, Sir?"

Sentinel's leering grin widened, and Blurr regretted asking.  "Why yes.  I saw you lying there all useless, checked your vitals - not even in critical condition anymore, just wasting time dreaming away, so I thought I'd help you back into the land of productivity."

Blurr gaped.  "You what?"

"I sent a small electric pulse through your system," he said proudly.

That explained the jolt, the fire, the pain - had he a smidgen less control, he would've leapt off the slab and clawed out Sentinel's optics.  But Blurr knew what the end result of _that_ would be.  "And Ratchet was okay with this?"

Sentinel jerked his head to another corner of the room, where Ratchet seemed to be in the midst of issuing orders to the now-awake newcomer.  "He was too busy to do it himself, so I took the liberty of helping."

Blurr found himself unable to stomach so-much-as _looking_ at the Prime any longer.  His frantic optics darted around the room, seeking a way out - Jazz was with the newcomer, Optimus was gone, as was Cliffjumper, the Jet Twins, and, most notably Longarm.  He would've given _anything_ to have Longarm Prime there with him now.  Where was he?

"Anyway," Sentinel said, grabbing hold of Blurr's antenna to manually direct attention back to himself.  Blurr tried his hardest not to growl.  "This wasn't all just for fun, or to be a creep, or whatever."  Well _that_ was a relief.  "I have a mission for you."

From the corner of his optic, Blurr caught sight of Ratchet stomping over, looking none-too-pleased.  Oh thank Primus.

"A mission, Sir?" he stalled.

"Yes, Agent.  It's something only you can do.  I need you to -"

"What in the Pit are you doing?!" Ratchet to the rescue.  Sentinel rolled his optics, but was at least nice enough to release Blurr's antenna.

"My job, medic.  I'm leading us off this stupid planet.  _You're_ giving doctor's orders to terrorists.  Who's in the right now?"

"Blurr doesn't have clearance to get back to work yet.  Pit, he doesn't even have clearance to get up and walk around."

"I feel fine," Blurr tried to protest, but Ratchet was having none of it.  He moved around the recharge slab to stand opposite of Sentinel, and reached out to give Blurr's arm a tap.

"Med panel, please."

Blurr obeyed, opening the panel with a soft swish, and Ratchet was jacking in moments later.  It was always a weird sensation to have someone's mind inside of him like this, but he supposed Ratchet had to check on the fortitude of his internal welding, and a diagnostic beam simply wouldn't do for that.

Sentinel, in the meantime, was equally frustrated.  "Please, you let the other guy out and about the moment _he_ was up."

Ratchet shook his head, engine emanating a low growl that left Blurr's circuits buzzing through the hard line.  "One: his injuries were of a different nature; two: I didn't _give_ him clearance.  He woke up, attacked Bumblebee, and ran away, all without permission from me; and three: I just got done telling that sorry aft's audial off.  If he knows what's good for him, he won't be pulling any more acrobatic stunts for a few solar cycles."

Sentinel let out an exasperated groan.  "Come _on_ , Doc.  This isn't even a taxing mission.  Not like I'm gonna make him go out and do back flips or whatever."

Ratchet narrowed his optics.  "I'll be the judge of that."

"Yeah, whatever," Sentinel responded, and then under his breath, added, "Crazy, washed up, field medic."  If Ratchet heard, he gave no indication.

"Now, Agent Blurb," Blurr didn't bother correcting him.  "I'm sure you've noticed, but we are still down one Longarm Prime."

"Where is he?" Blurr wondered aloud.  Sentinel huffed in response.  "If we knew that, I wouldn't need to send you on this mission.  But that bleeding heart isn't answering any of his comms, and I kind of assigned him an important duty before he took off."

"If it's important, then I'm sure Longarm is working his hardest to get it done."

"Yeah, whatever,."  Sentinel brushed off the comment with a wave of his servo.  "I don't want guesses.  I want facts.  I want _you_ to find Longarm."

Blurr sat up a little straighter, raising an optic ridge in bemusement.  "Me, Sir?  Not sure what I can do if I'm not even allowed to leave the recharge slab."  A fact he truly hoped would not come to pass,  but one he was not willing to protest, should it come down to that.  He was already tired of being an invalid.  He wasn't about to extend the duration if he could help it.

"Well Agent, you're in luck.  All I want you to do is comm him.  Don't even have to lift a finger - ain't that easy?"

"But you said he wasn't answering his comms."

"For _us_ ," Sentinel corrected.  "But I'll bet he'd answer if _you_ called him."

"I beg your pardon?" Blurr asked, tilting his head.  "Are you implying that he affords me special treatment, because I assure you, that's not the case.  Longarm has a tendency to forward his comms to Cliffjumper when he's super involved in a project - I mean, it'd be awfully hard to get anything done if you're being interrupted every five kliks, so that makes sense.  If he's busy, he's not going to answer for me any more than anyone else."  That was true, wasn't it?  He'd been forwarded once or twice, he was sure of it!  It had just been awhile.  Right?

Sentinel let loose a scathing laugh.  "It's cute that you're trying to protest or whatever, but let's face it - we all know what the two of you get up to off-duty.  It's gross and unprofessional, but it'd be stupid to not take advantage of it now."

What?!  Where had he gotten _that_ idea?  Blurr felt a pink heat pooling behind his face plates - it took all of his willpower to not get up and flee, whether Ratchet was still attached or not.  "I don't know what you're talking about!"  he squawked.  "I assure you, the relationship between Longarm and myself is nothing but professional!  We get on well, that's all!  We're soldiers, not protoforms!  Even if there _were_ feelings there, which there _aren't_ even, we're both professional enough to not pursue them!"  Blurr's voice moved at increasingly faster speeds as he grew more and more flustered.

"Calm down there," Ratchet said, placing a steadying servo on one of Blurr's pauldrons, before withdrawing his cables.  "As scandalous as this conversation is, I'd like to put it on hold for a klik."

"Yes please," Blurr said, hanging his head.  He was acting foolish.  The things Sentinel was implying should've been calmly dismissed.  It wasn't like there was _actually_ anything going on between them.  Why was he making such a big deal of it?

"Yeah, whatever," Sentinel shrugged.

"You're healing nicely, but there is some lingering damage.  You can feel free to get up and move around, but I don't want you running for a deca-cycle or so."

"A deca-cycle?" A sinking feeling took over Blurr's tanks.  He'd do as Ratchet advised, but running gave him life.  Being denied it for such a duration was going to be maddening.

"Yes.  I want to make sure those welds take.  Internal work is tricky.  And it should go without saying that I don't want you to transform."

He stared silently at his lap for a moment.  He'd figured as much, but he didn't like the news anyway.  "I understand.  No running, no transforming, no exploding."

"Good," Ratchet said with a nod.  "And I don't want you ingesting anything for the rest of the solar cycle, and maybe tomorrow as well.  We'll see.  After that, it's med grade only.  You really did a number on your fuel  tanks."

Blurr grimaced, attention drawn to the emptiness in his gut.  Today was going to be miserable, he could already tell.  "Understood Sir.  anything else?"

"No, that's it."  Ratchet wiped his hands of excess oil, and sauntered off in the direction of Optimus, though he did look back their way every so often.  It seemed that he didn't trust Sentinel to keep his word.  Smart bot.

"Good," Sentinel grumbled, glaring at Ratchet's retreating back, before returning his attention to Blurr.  "Then why don't we get back to business.  Go ahead, Agent.  Comm up Longarm."

"Yes sir, but I don't think he'll answer."

Would he?  Was Sentinel right?  _Did_ Longarm afford him special treatment?  His spark beat faster as he put in the call.  He waited.  One.  Two.

"Blurr?  Is that you?" Cliffjumper's voice echoed across the link.

"Yeah, it's me.  Sorry, I was trying to reach Longarm."

"Oh."  He sounded disappointed.

"Sorry to bother you."

"Wai-" Blurr had cut the call before Cliffjumper could finish.  No matter.  He'd talk to him face-to-face later.  Right now, all that mattered was getting Sentinel to go away.

"Sorry sir, I was forwarded to Cliffjumper."

The fury emanating from Sentinel's frame was practically tangible.

"Try again."

Blurr stifled a frustrated sigh, and did as he was ordered.

"Blurr!  You're back!" Cliffjumper was so happy; Blurr couldn't just hang up again.

"Ah yes, Cliffjumper," he emphasized the name with a pointed look at Sentinel.

"Look, Longarm told me what you did for me, and I just wanted to say -"

"Ugh, stop wasting your time, Agent," Sentinel interrupted, talking over Cliffjumper.

"Sir, I _did_ tell you," and then, remembering that his comm was still open, "Sorry, Cliffjumper.  I'm with Sentinel Prime on business right now.  I'll talk to you when you get back."  He hung up without waiting for reply again.

"Don't get cute with me, Blurb."

"Blurr."

"I don't care _what_ your name is.  I _need_ Longarm right now.  Maybe if you could get that through your stupidly-oblong head, you'd realize how dire the situation is."

Blurr scoffed.  "Sir, forgive me for saying, but after two near-death experiences, I think I, more than most, am perfectly aware of the gravity of the situation, thank you very much.  And there's no need to throw insults.  If Longarm doesn't want to answer his comm, then there's not a whole lot I can do to make him."

"Maybe he'd come if it were a distress signal you were sending . . ."

Blurr froze.  "Was that a threat, Sir?"

Sentinel's processor finally seemed to catch up to his mouth; he'd realized what he'd said too little too late.  He withdrew a step, optics wide and hunted.  "Wow, that - uh - _that_ was a thing I just said - I mean, that came out wrong, and why do you have to be so infuriating anyway - I mean," he vented deeply in an effort to calm down.  "No.  Some bots might not respect me as a leader, but I'm not the type of Prime to sacrifice my men for nothing.  It was just a thought."

He took another step back.  And another.  Was he actually _ashamed_  of something he'd said?  That was a first.

"Look, just - uh - just keep trying.  He can't ignore us forever.  And when you do get through, tell him to get his sorry aft back here.  Uh that - that will be all.  Bulkhead!  Progress update!"  And he was gone, off to pester other bots, leaving Blurr alone with only his thoughts, and nigh-impossible mission to keep him company.

~~~

The next few days moved by at an excruciatingly slow pace.  On Ratchet's orders, Blurr didn't leave the shuttle, and as scouting seemed to be the mission of choice for just about everyone without a specialized skill set, there weren't a whole lot of bots left for him to talk to.  Ordinarily, he would have been fine with this, but confined as he was - hungry, bored, and in a constant state of discomfort, Blurr was beginning to grow grouchy.  He wished Longarm was around  - or would at least answer his comms.

He'd taken to calling once a day, just to get Sentinel off his back, but the results never changed.  Cliffjumper had eventually stopped answering the forwarded calls.  And of course, he was left to face the fallout from Sentinel for his failures, no matter how hard he tried.

"Have you _really_ not found him yet?  I'd thought _you_ , of all bots, would be faster."

"I don't know, Sir.  Maybe he'd respond to a distress signal."  The reminder of that great pede-in-mouth moment was usually enough to get the Prime to back off.  Blurr had never recalled being so brazen in his life.  It was almost liberating.

After a few days of stubbornly dying of boredom, he gave in and actually began socializing with other bots of his own free will.  Unfortunately, most didn't seem too keen on socializing back.

"Can't you see I'm busy right now?" Ratchet had said.

"Doing what?"

"Sentinel's roped me into ship's maintenance."

"Maintenance?" Blurr said, perking up.  "I've got some basic skills in that.  Maybe I could be of some assistance?"

Ratchet did that air-lip-pfft thing he'd grown fond of as of late.  "Not much to assist with yet, and not to dismiss any glitches you may have, but I think I'd be more productive going over this on my own - at my own speed.  Bulkhead might need some help.  Go bother him."

Blurr left in a huff.  He'd expected Ratchet of all bots to give him a fair chance to help.  His prospects from here on in looked dismal.

~~~

"Can I help you?"  Bumblebee asked, standing as tall as his tiny legs would allow, firmly between Blurr and Bulkhead.

"You can help me, by letting me help you!  It's my understanding that Bulkhead's still working to get the energon distillery back online, and our own supplies may not last the rest of the orbital cycle.  I'm no engineer, but I've got some basic mechanical training from the Elite Guard, and I thought that three hands might be better than two."  He was trying so, so hard to come off as approachable , humble friendly.  Unfortunately, Bumblebee didn't seem to appreciate his efforts.

"So first you steal my gig as the fastest bot on wheels, then you steal my Elite Guard dreams, and _now_ you're trying to steal my role as assistant engineer?"

What was this kid on about?  "I'm not trying to steal anything.  I just want to be of assistance."  Keep trying, keep trying.

"A likely story!  Bet it doesn't feel so nice being the one told to sit there and look pretty, now does it?" he said with a satisfied smirk.  "Bulkhead is _my_ friend, and I'll be the one assisting him."

So much for that.  Blurr scoffed.  "This is ridiculous!  I'm not here to steal your job or your friend - I don't care about any of that.  I can help you, so why don't you put your pride aside for a moment and think about the good of the group for a change?"  He turned to Bulkhead, looking him square in the optic.  "Give me one _good_ reason why you don't want me helping, and I'll leave."

Bulkhead turned away from his mish-mash of cogs and gears and circuitry with a distressed frown.  "I'm not kicking Bumblebee off my team, and since the two of you don't seem to get along, I think it would be better if you went somewhere else."

Blurr opened his mouth to protest, but the vindictive gleam in Bumblebee's optic cut him off, and he found he no longer had the energy to bother.  "Understood."

~~~

He didn't have much luck with the rest, on the occasion that they _were_ around the ship.

"You know I wanna see you happy," Jazz had said, when cornered.  "But it's my duty to look out for Prowl.  Sentinel's looking for a reason to axe 'im, and makin' sure there's more reason to keep 'im around than not is a full-time gig.  Hit me up when you're out-and-about."

It was still more than Prowl had given him.  Blurr had tried to introduce himself hoping for some decent conversation, but the stranger had taken one look at him, and flitted off with a 'hmph.'"

~~~

"You know?" said Cliffjumper.  "It's not that I'm ungrateful - I mean, I clearly wouldn't be here if you hadn't helped me, and I'm glad - seriously glad, that you did what you did . . . It's just . . . "

"Just?" Blurr repeated, drawing out the word for as long as his glitch would allow.

Cliffjumper crossed his arms with a  soft growl.  "I've gotten calls to Longarm from you every day.  But not a single one for me!  And up to now, it's not like I've been completely absent.  Yeah, I've been helping out Sentinel with management things, helping out Optimus with scouting things, but how many times have the two of us been here with nothing to do?  And how many times have you thought to come chat?"

Blurr held back a growl of his own.  _Keep trying_.  "Well, not to be a stickler or anything, but how many times have _you_ come to _me_?"

He knew it was a mistake the moment he'd said it, as Cliffjumper's face morphed from pinched annoyance to full-on rage.

"Don't pin this on me!  _You're_ the one who's been projecting an EM field rife with 'Don't talk to me, I'm pissy today!'  I should've known.  We've never been friends.  Why start now?"

Blurr winced at the accusation.  Had he really been that bad?  "Okay, my bad then.  I hadn't realized -"

But Cliffjumper wasn't listening.  "Thank you for saving me.  Really.  But we're not friends.  Go spend time with Longarm - he's the one you'd rather be with."  And then he was gone in a huff, stalking over to Sentinel Prime, where he plopped down to sort out the day's energon rations.

Blurr couldn't help but feel a twinge of betrayal.  Cliffjumper was Intel, as Blurr was.  They should be sticking together, and yet, here Cliffjumper was, shunning him for Sentinel, of all mecha.  Somewhere deep down, the barest flicker of resentment began to grow - not for Cliffjumper- he was right, after all.  He and Blurr had never been close, and it had taken an act of desperation for him to even consider speaking with the little red mech.  No, the resentment was for Longarm.

He was supposed to be here, holding his team together, not off hiding away from the world.  Not even a full solar cycle's worth of scouting had turned up the Prime, and Blurr had come to his wit's end.  How much longer could this go on for?

~~~

The Jet Twins came back from their long-range scouting expedition the next day, bringing with the first real excitement in days.  Everyone gathered around the desk, to listen to their report, though Blurr found himself lingering in the back of the crowd with Optimus Prime, who had been equally moody as of late.

"So we fly from the island.  Soooo far," said Jetfire, painting the distance with his hands.

"Seven solar cycles," Jetstorm added.  "We would be loving some energon."

"In time, but I want your report first."  Sentinel was as stingy as ever, but the twins didn't seem to mind.

"Oh yes!"

"Of course, Sir!"

They were practically giddy, in fact.

Jetstorm picked up where they'd left off.  "Eventually, we are to finding more land."

"More islands.  Here and there.   That is all for the first of days."

"The second of days, we are finding more land.  Bigger this time."

"Much bigger!"

"A continent!"

"There were being animals!"

"Organics!"

"Thousands of them!"  Jetfire motioned with his hands once again for emphasis.

"But did you find anything that could help us?"  Sentinel pressed.

The twins glanced at one another, before shaking their heads in unison.

"Organic cultures, I don't understand," Jetstorm shrugged.

"But if there are being - what you call, Brother?"  Jetfire trailed off.

"Sentient," came Jetstorm's quick answer.

"Ah yes!  _Sentient_ life, then it cannot help us.  No space travel, no cities, not even jets!"

"No jets!" Jetstorm echoed.  "Maybe we scared local animals, Brother."

"Oh most surely, Brother!"

"Okay, okay."  Sentinel waved his large hands, interrupting the excitable twins.  "Did you get a feel for how big this planet is?  Anything to help identify it?"

"Most certainly!" came the unison reply.

Blurr listened to their tale for a little longer, took in the planet's size, landmasses, bodies of water, climates, and some other details that the jets had found on their travels.  It would be at least the smallest bit helpful in determining where they'd wound up, if Longarm didn't come through.

Eventually, there was nothing more to tell, however, and the group broke, sending the twins off for the day's energon allotments, along with those scheduled to eat, Jazz and Cliffjumper.

When Bumblebee had brought out the playing cards, however, Blurr was out.  Maybe their earlier rejections of him had stung more than he'd thought.

"Come on, Blurr.  We'd love to have you," Jazz insisted.  "I bet you'd be great at it."

Blurr waved away the offer.  "I'm feeling a little tired, actually.  I think I'm gonna retire."

He snuck outside as fast as he dared, crawling from the crater and into the woods in an effort to escape the bitter merriment.

"You shouldn't be out here on your own," came a voice from behind him.  Optimus.  Optimus had followed him.  Blurr tried to keep his response civil, but his empty tanks were hardly helping his foul mood.

"I'm not going far, and even if I was, the island's since been thoroughly scouted, hasn't it?  Whatever I got caught up in before is long gone now.  Nothing's gonna hurt me that I can't handle."

"You say that," Optimus began, taking a maddening amount of time on every word, "but the last time you were out here, I was the one who had to carry you back.  Excuse me if I don't want to repeat the experience."

Blurr released a heavy ex-vent, and slumped to the ground, leaning his hood against a sturdy tree.  "All right then.  I suppose I can't protest Sir, when you put it that way," even if he _really_ wanted to.  "You _did_ save my life after all, and you're a Prime anyway.  It's not like I can order you to do anything."

"Maybe not."  Optimus's voice was faraway, as he stared at phantoms in the distance.  Just what he was thinking about, Blurr was never meant to know, but he didn't mind the sudden lull in conversation.  He instead watched as Optimus fussed his way to the ground, mimicking Blurr by taking a seat against another tree, as though trying to show his solidarity.

They remained in the silence for a long while, listening only to the sound of their own thoughts.  For Blurr, this was a never-ending barrage of information - he wanted to be alone, but he couldn't be alone, but he couldn't make connections either - trapped surrounded by others, but solitary as ever.  He wished, as he did every moment of every day, that Longarm was here.

If he ever _did_ manage to find the Prime, he didn't know whether he should hug him, relief at the return to the familiar, or hit him for the abandonment.  Blurr would probably compromise by doing neither.

Optimus had said nothing in a few kliks, but even so, Blurr wanted a distraction.  He'd nearly made it a whole day without calling Longarm.  That was counter-productive to the mission, and would not be tolerated.  With a pain in his spark, he placed his daily call, feeling all the more despair when no one answered.  Again.  He had to stop doing this to himself.

"Blurr?"

"Yes sir?" he responded automatically to Optimus's query.

"Are you . . . doing all right?"

"I'm fine sir," he lied.  "My recovery's going well - Ratchet says I can probably start eating again by tomorrow, and from there it won't be _that_ much longer before I'm up and about again.  And while I'm having no luck on the task Sentinel assigned me, I think with the information Jetfire and Jetstorm provided us, I'll be able to narrow down a list of possible planets we've ended up on, provided that Sentinel allows me access to the computer, and also provided that it's in our galaxy, out of Decepticon territory,  and well-documented enough to recognize, which it probably won't be given the lack of advanced civilization, except in the offshoot chance that this is a major mining planet, but what are the odds of that?" He let out a manic chuckle.

How much of Blurr's babbling Optimus managed to pick up was anyone's guess, but it didn't matter much in the end anyway, as most of it was ignored.

"Look Blurr, I'm worried about you.  I know we've barely met, but I remember you from that first day on this world - confidently taking charge, and doing everything in your power to get information on our predicament.  I'm not sure even _I_ would've been so level-headed in a crisis."  The Prime smiled bitterly at the recollection, but the expression was fleeting.  "Now, however - ever since you woke up, really - and I know it must be hard to be a speedster who can't run, but you've seemed a bit . . . hollow lately.  and you've cut yourself off from everybody else, which is only making things worse."

Blurr laughed, a spiteful sound.  "Strange to hear that coming from you, Sir."

Optimus tilted his head.  "What do you mean?"

Using the tree as leverage, Blurr slid back to his feet, wanting to look down on the Prime for a change.  "Well, forgive my saying, but _you've_ been every bit as isolated and moody as I have.  And I _do_ get it to some degree - you've lost a lot after all - maybe more than the rest of us - certainly more than me," he said, feeling suddenly humbled.  He sank backwards, supporting himself against the tree once more.  There were other bots who had it worse than him, after all.  But his change of heart was short-lived.  He forced himself to stand tall, and finished his tirade.  He needed to get this off his chest.

"But you're  _Prime_.  We're supposed to be able to look to you in a crisis.  Longarm and you _both_ have failed us, leaving Sentinel to run the show, and if you ask me, that's the worst fate that could've befallen us."

His words had been a clear punch to the gut for Optimus.  "Sentinel's not done a terrible job so far," he tried, knitting his optic ridges.

"Then you haven't been paying attention, Sir.  I don't want to go on following Sentinel, with his refusal to innovate, and inability to empathize to even the smallest degree.  I _want_ to follow Longarm, but he's not here right now, so that leaves you."  He hadn't meant to be so harsh, but his frustration was in control now.

"You noticed that I've been upset; do you think _he_ has?  Of _course_ not.  He's too busy forcing me to call Longarm day after day to solve his problems instead of looking for a new solution that doesn't rely on a mech who won't even answer his comms and it hurts!" he at last exploded, turning the conversation in a personal direction that he certainly hadn't intended to.  Oh well, too late to stop it now.  "I know it shouldn't, and I know it's unprofessional, but I can't make it go away!"  He let his helm fall forward, rubbing at his temples with shaking servos.  "I just want him to answer me, I just want to be useful, and I just want to be off this planet and away from everyone else and _running_ again!"

His words echoed in the empty woods, and no one dared to break the silence that followed.  Optimus watched Blurr thoughtfully, pondering in the twilight.  And Blurr stood his ground, cooling fans on high, plating trembling with an audible clatter that Optimus could surely hear, and absolutely see.  What a sorry sight!  He had been trained for situations exactly like this!  Why was he making such a mess of things?  What was _wrong_ with him?!

He took a deep vent, forced his body to relax, forced his frame to stop shaking.  Once composed, he reset his vocaliser and broke the silence.

"I'm sorry Sir," he said.  "I was out of line.  I won't let that happen again."

Optimus merely shook his head, crawling back to his pedes.  "No, you're right.  Your situation is not the only issue I've noticed, and it's my duty to fix this mess.  You lot are all that I have left - I _still_ have your welfare to consider.  I will talk to Sentinel."  He turned to leave, but hesitated, casting Blurr a smile, that came off as more of a grimace.  "I'll leave you to yourself, if that's what you need.  Thank you."

Thank you.  The Prime was thanking _him_!  It felt wrong somehow.  Blurr recalled Ratchet's advice from earlier.

"You too!" he blurted, feeling embarrassed by the awkward timing of his expression of gratitude.

The Prime raised an optic ridge.  "For what?"

"For saving my life."

The smile that overtook Optimus's face was genuine this time.  "You're welcome."

And then he was gone.  Marching back into the warm chaos of the ship, leaving Blurr alone at last.

That was, until the cheerful ping of his comm pulled him from his thoughts.  One look at the caller had his spark pulsing wildly in fear and anticipation.

_"Agent Blurr.  Meet me at the provided coordinates.  Longarm out."_

~~~

He didn't have to travel too far.  On a normal day, Blurr would've made the journey in a few kliks.  Unable to run, however, he wound up taking a little more than a cycle.

His destination was a cave, one of many on a rocky hillside, unexplored, according to his map.  Why did Longarm want to meet him in a cave?  Was this where he'd been staying?

Blurr slipped into the darkness, venturing deep enough that the only illumination came from his own bio-lighting.  When he saw a new light source just beyond the bend, he knew he was close.

"You're late," Longarm said.  He stood with his back to Blurr, contemplating a small pile of smuggled energon cubes, which did a good job of brightening up the place  A few knick knacks lay here and there, presumably the contents of Longarm's subspace, though the most he could identify was a data pad or two.

"I'm sorry, sir.  I had to – er, walk."

Longarm turned in a rush, a momentary fear flashing across his face plates, but one look at Blurr's generally in-tact frame banished it.  He _had_ been worried though.  Somehow, the thought gave Blurr steam. 

"Well, I mean, I'm healing really nicely - Ratchet says that I'll make a full and speedy recovery so long as I follow his advice, and I don't want to jeopardize the chances of that happening, so I'm following his advice to the letter."

Longarm's face grew dark with an expression that even Blurr couldn't recognize.  "I see," he said.

He was distancing himself.  His initial response to Blurr's perceived state had been genuine, but now - his emotions and expressions were on lockdown.  Why? 

"You wanted to see me, Sir?"

Longarm faced him full-on, but kept his arms crossed, closing off his body.  "Every solar cycle, you comm me.  Sometimes more than once.  I can't ignore it, I've tried - Primus knows, so I gave in.  What do you want?"

Blurr wanted to ask why Longarm had invited him all the way out here to talk, but he couldn't ignore a direct question.  "Mostly, I want Sentinel to get off my back, Sir."

"Ah yes, I'd assumed as much.  Sentinel . . ." he trailed off with a low growl.  Was he angry?  Disappointed?  It had never been this hard to read Longarm in the past.

The Prime turned his back on Blurr.  "I assure him that I'm working diligently, searching for the information he wants."  And that was it.  He said no more, waiting for Blurr to either leave or respond.

It made the rage boil in Blurr's empty tanks.  Longarm's absence had been hell on him these past few solar cycles, and now, here he stood, without so much as a speck of remorse.  He may have been done with the conversation, but Blurr wasn't.  He'd already told one Prime off that night.  Why not make it two?

"With all due respect, Sir, I have a few things I'd like to tell you myself."

"You may proceed."  Longarm still wasn't looking at him.  Why wasn't Longarm looking at him?

"Why are you out here?  I get that you don't like crowds, or you want to work, or whatever - Primus knows _I_ feel the same, but you've left us with a mess!  You've left _me_ with Sentinel, and I can't go on the way I've been.  I can't run, I can't help, I can't even _talk_ to anyone - I'm useless and I can't even do the one task that Sentinel saw fit for me to do without you getting in my way, and I want it to stop!

"I don't want to go back there!  I can't sit around, watching helplessly while nothing gets accomplished - while we slowly starve to death."

Longarm finally turned to face him; Blurr could only imagine what he saw with those stern optics – a mess of an Autobot, frame so tense it shook, head hung low, optics narrowed in a glower directed at the ground.

"You want me to go back?" Longarm asked, his neutral expression doing all it could to rub Blurr the wrong way.

"Yes Sir."

Longarm shook his head, slowly.  "It would accomplish nothing.  I am well-aware of the fact that I have little sway in the group, especially when compared with my colleagues.  I would be subject to Sentinel's whims, which, as you are well aware of, is more hindrance than help. 

"Out here, on the other hand, I've made some strides in locating us.  I've found the region of the galaxy - narrowing out star systems even as we speak.  I assure you, I'd have no such luck with _him_ looking over my shoulder."

Blurr shuffled, suddenly uncomfortable.  "I understand, Sir.  I'm being selfish.  I know.  I'm sorry."  He took a step back, in ashamed retreat.  "I'll leave you to it and won't bother you anymore."  Another step, his frame shaking so hard  by now, that his plating rattled sharply against his protoform.  "I'll be back and up and about before you know it, and I'll get out of this slump and - I don't know, be all right I guess.  Obey Sentinel's orders, wait patiently, let those who are fit to help do so.  I'm only in the way of the mission as I am now, and the mission comes first."  He didn't know what he was feeling anymore, but he knew that he didn't want to be here, an embarrassment in the eyes of the one he looked up to the most.

He'd always been such a good agent - Longarm had admired him for being a _good agent._ What must he think of him now?  He was crippled, vulnerable, useless, letting all of his petty feelings get the best of him - it was mortifying.  "You won't hear from me again, Sir."  He turned on his heal to hasten his retreat, never regretting the loss of his speed as much as he did now.

"Wait."  He froze at Longarm's request, spark pulsing hard enough that it _must_ have been audible.

"Come here, Blurr."

The order didn't make any sends to Blurr.  What did Longarm intend to do?  Denigrate him to his face?  It seemed like an out of character choice for the otherwise-unflappable mech, but what did it matter?  Blurr wasn't about to ignore a direct order from Longarm Prime.

He hadn't expected the arms to wrap around him - to pull him in tight, in a strut-crushing embrace.  For the barest moment, he thought he felt dangerous claws running down the back of his neck, and he tensed in response, but no - they were clearly fingers when they moved up to stroke the base of his antenna.  Blurr found himself melting into the touch.

"Sir?"

"My absence has really upset you, hasn't it?"  He was smiling again, the gentle, familiar smile that Blurr was accustomed to.  What a relief. 

A part of him wanted to protest Longarm's observation - wanted to blame his weakness on a combination of factors, but Longarm was so warm against him, that all he managed was a small, affirmative grunt.

"Then I won't leave you again."  There was an edge of . . . something to his voice that made Blurr a little uncomfortable, but it was ignored in favor of resting his cheek on Longarm's heavily-treaded shoulder.

They were on the ground now, Longarm's back pressed against the wall of the cavern, and Blurr an exhausted puddle of Autobot, half-sprawled on his lap, head pressed to his chest, letting the slow, steady hum of Longarm's engine calm him.  How had this happened?

"Stay with me tonight."

With reluctance to move, Blurr pulled his head away, to look Longarm in the optic.  "Sir?"

Longarm took a moment to gather his thoughts, leaving only the heavy whirring of hard-working fans to break the silence, though to Blurr's surprise, the sound was not coming from himself.  "I admit that I did not come out here merely to work.  I needed to come to terms with a few  . . . things."

"Things?" Blurr prompted.

"My feelings regarding you, mostly."  His EM field, usually so tightly controlled, gave a flicker of annoyance.  It was not a feeling that Blurr liked to have associated with himself, though he could forgive Longarm's minor betrayal this once.  He wasn't entirely pleased with the situation either.  Logically, he knew that whatever _this_ was, it broke no fewer than seven rules, and could only end poorly, but lying here, with Longarm's engine purring softly beneath him, left little room for protestation. 

The entirety of their relationship flashed before his eyes, the mutual respect, the special treatment (perhaps Sentinel hadn't been wrong about that after all), the determination, admiration, and yes, even desire.  He _liked_ Longarm, wanted to _be_ with Longarm.  and judging by their current position, Longarm wanted to be with him too.

His feelings rushed by in a flurry that even _he_ couldn't keep up with.  He lacked the energy for words, but did acknowledge Longarm with another grunt, dancing his fingers along the edges of Longarm's Autobot badge.

"And though the matter remains unresolved," he continued, shuffling Blurr's position to look him straight in the optic, "I know I want you here with me."  His face had taken on the cutest expression, one of serious determination, as if he were hunting Decepticons, or begging the Magnus for further funding.

"It's late anyway," he added.  "Id' prefer if you didn't walk back alone.  We'll figure everything out in the morning."  And with that said, he shifted a little further, making himself more comfortable against the rocky wall, and wrapped an arm around Blurr, drawing him closer.

Blurr, despite their dire situation and the rough few solar cycles he'd undergone, found that here, warm and safe and comfortable with Longarm, he was more content than he'd ever been in his life.  He let his optics flicker off, and drifted into a deep recharge.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At least they've both realized that they dig each other. Woo-hoo!
> 
> Sleeeeep.


	14. Belonging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shockwave comes to terms with his feelings for Blurr. But can Blurr come to terms with his feelings for Longarm?

He'd been so close to killing the naive little Autobot – had had his claws wrapped around that skinny little neck, ready to sever head from shoulders, and he had failed to go through with it.  Even now, as Blurr dozed softly against his side, trusting and vulnerable, he couldn't bring himself to rip out that pretty spark of his.

This was madness.  He'd been compromised by a fragile Autobot speedster with an infatuation - he'd need to be gotten rid of before he made a further mess of Shockwave's mission.  Every Decepticon protocol in his circuits told him as much.

But at the same time, a pesky little voice in his head, no more than a whisper, kept right on insisting, _He's not a threat, he adores you, you can use this to your advantage._ And that voice, despite his misgivings, his apprehension at these disgusting desires, was the one that one him over in the end.

He couldn't kill Blurr.  Not now.  If he directly threatened the mission, of course - he'd do it in an instant, and deal with the awful pangs of loss even the _thought_ of killing the bot left him with, at another time. 

But now, as he felt the soft stream of air flowing from tiny vents against his own chassis, he felt his spark consumed, not with the desire to crush the life out of the delicate frame, but to tenderly stroke his shoulder pauldron instead.  He did so, suppressing the churning in his tanks that accompanied the notion of intimacy with one who by all rights should've been his enemy.

Blurr's legs gave a soft, sleepy kick in response, and somehow, it was endearing.  It shouldn't have been.  What was so special about _this_ Autobot?  His speed?  Yes, he was faster than any mech had the right to be, but Shockwave should have seen that as a threat, not a charm point.

Was it his appearance?  The mech was gorgeous, even for an Autobot - sleek curves, and sharp angles, and that beautiful shade of blue . . . Shockwave cast his gaze downward, wanting to drink in the memory of this impossibly beautiful mech sleeping beside him.  But though Blurr was aesthetically pleasing, there were plenty of other mechs out there - Decepticons  - who were just as lovely.  He'd never felt so strongly for any of them.

He leaned down to place a soft kiss on Blurr's antenna.  The movement was clumsy; Shockwave had no mouth in his true form, after all.  It was his own antennae that would have carried the token of his affections, had he the option to free them.  The gentle hum of their tiny energy field would nuzzle against Blurr's own, conveying his affection, his pleasure, his desire.  It was so very tempting to risk it.  But he refrained.  He wasn't so foolish a bot to do such a reckless thing.    

 Blurr stirred beneath the action, and his wide blue optics shuttered on to stare up at Longarm's face, first with confusion, and then fondness.  And that was it, wasn't it?  Shockwave liked Blurr, because Blurr gave him something that no other mech, Autobot _or_ Decepticon had.  Loyalty, to Shockwave - or at least, the mech he thought Shockwave to be, over all else. 

He recognized the way Blurr was looking at him.  It was not entirely different from the way that _he_ looked at Megatron.  It left him hypnotized, lost in the those twin blue lights.  Blurr wanted him, and Shockwave felt much the same.  So be it then.  From now on, the little mech was his, for better or worse.  He forced a look of similar affection to Longarm's face plates.

"You are very beautiful, you know."

And just like that, the spell was broken.  His words were enough to pull Blurr from whatever reverie he'd been in.  He darted away, skittering backward several feet.  Not an ideal reaction, but it wasn't exactly unexpected from Blurr.

"I'm so sorry Sir, I can't believe I let that happen!  You must think I'm some love-sick protoform who can't even control his own emotions, not to mention actions.  I really hadn't meant to do that Sir, I'm so sorry!"

"Sorry?" Shockwave laughed.  "Why sorry?  You did nothing to upset me, and I don't think any less of you for staying with me last night.  I rather enjoyed myself, to be honest."

Before he was able to add another thought, he was cut off by the ping of his comm.  Sentinel.  Of course.  Who else would butt in on such an intimate moment?  Still, after his impromptu abduction of Blurr, it was probably better to take it this once.

"Hold on one nanoklik," he said to Blurr, before answering.  "Longarm speaking."

"It's about fragging time!"  Sentinel's voice range loud enough to cause feedback on the comm.  Even Blurr seemed to hear it.

"I apologize for my unavailability, Sir.  I've been hard at work doing what I was ordered to, and I have made great progress."

Shockwave could hear Sentinel's sputtering from across the line.  "That's - that's great!  Really swell.  Good job, champ."  And then nothing.  It was clear that Sentinel had more to say, but the idiot couldn't seem to figure out how to get around to it.  After several moments of silence, however, Shockwave was beginning to grow impatient.  He wanted to end this farce of a conversation and get back to wooing Blurr.  It was time to offer some assistance.

"If that was everything . . .?"

"What?  _N_ o that wasn't everything!  I'll be requiring a full report from you regarding your discoveries."

"Of course, Sir."

"And also  . . ."  Again, Sentinel trailed off, allowing the silence to linger on like an unwanted guest, and again, Shockwave was forced to give him a little nudge.

"Also?"

"Don't rush me!"  Sentinel snapped, but seemed to have properly collected his thoughts, at least.  "Agent Blurr has gone missing.  We suspect foul play.  Prowl's been taken into custody."

"Prowl?"  It wasn't hard to figure out which of the bots on the island was the one whose name he'd never heard before, but Shockwave figured it was safer to err on the side of ignorance.

"That bot Jazz found after we landed.  Anyway, I thought you'd like to know."

Shockwave stared intently at Blurr for a long moment.  If he were a more expressive bot, he would've been laughing like a loon.  As it was, he kept that gaze locked on Blurr, long enough that the other bot began to shift uncomfortably beneath it.

"Did you try calling him?"

"Me?  No.  I had Cliffjumper do it."

That didn't necessarily explain the situation, but it did give Shockwave a foundation for hypothesis.  Blurr was far more likely to ignore a call from Cliffjumper than Sentinel, though he was hardly one to ignore calls from anyone in the first place.  Either he had a grudge against the little red secretary, or the call hadn't gone through for some reason.  He supposed he could find out sooner or later, regardless.

"Ah.  Well, you needn't worry.  Agent Blurr is here with me."

Blurr tilted his head.  Behind those optics, he could see the gears of his processor turning.

Sentinel meanwhile, was sputtering again.  "The pit is he doing there?  We're in a crisis Longarm!  We don't have the luxury of taking time off to kanoodle!"

Kanoodle?  Best dispel that notion right away.  "Sir, I assure you, we've been hard at work.  It's my understanding that you ordered him to find me, and now I'm found, so you could call that mission accomplished.  He's been helping me with my own mission since last night, and as I said earlier, we've made much progress."

He could practically _hear_ Sentinel rolling his optics.  "Yeah, whatever.  Don't want to hear your excuses.  Just get back here with that report!"

"Yes sir.  I'll be there within the cycle.  Longarm out."  What a frustrating mech.  His was the last voice Shockwave wanted to hear so early in the morning, let alone when he was in the middle of dealing with some very complicated emotions (which was how Shockwave felt about _most_ emotions).  He was blessed that the conversation hadn't lasted longer.

"Sentinel Prime?"  Blur ventured, voice full of sympathy.

"Yes.  Seemed to be under the impression that you were missing?"

A flash of guilt overtook Blurr's faceplates.  "Well sir, I _did_ come here last night without telling anyone - I wanted to get to you as fast as I could when you called, and everyone else was settling down for the evening anyway, and I didn't think I'd really be missed, so I didn't see the harm in it."

"How rebellious of you," Shockwave said with a smile in Longarm's voice.  Blurr must have missed the sentiment, however.

"I'm sorry, Sir!  I promise I won't let that happen again!"

Shockwave shook his head.  "I'm not angry.  To be honest, I was banking on you coming alone."  _To make killing you easier,_ he thought.  If only it had panned out in that way.  "But what about Cliffjumper?"

"Cliffjumper, Sir?  What about him?"

"Sentinel informed me that he had tried to comm you, and couldn't get through."

Blurr tilted his head.  "It's news to me, Sir. I haven't heard a so much as a peep from him since we talked yesterday afternoon.  It was confrontational, I admit, but I can't imagine he'd intentionally sabotage me for something like _that_."  He waved a dismissive hand at the notion.

"Confrontational?" Shockwave said, suppressing a possessive growl.  Oh how far he'd fallen in such a short time - already eager to jump to Blurr's defense against his own alleged allies. 

Unfortunately, Blurr seemed more interested in protecting his colleague than in providing an explanation.  He shook his head with a negating grunt.  "I'd hate to bore you with all of the trivial detail of the past few days, Sir."

Shockwave remained unsatisfied.  "On the contrary.  It's the trivial that brings context to the vital, and a small bit here or there can prevent catastrophe in the long run."  Those optics were on him again, alight with admiration.  He couldn't argue with those, as much as he wanted to protect the silly, misguided little Autobot from the vicious, toxic presence of the others.  "But I suppose if you don't want to talk about it, then I won't press."

Had that been the wrong thing to say?  It must've been!  Those pretty eyes were no longer looking at him, but at the cave floor, as if Blurr was embarrassed.  He laughed bitterly.

"What's wrong?"  Oh how he wanted to reach out and lift that sharp chin, put those optics back on himself.  He of course, refrained.  For now.

"It wasn't a big deal or anything.  Honest.  But there I went, saying the wrong thing again and making you worry!  That seems to be all I do these days - making everyone worry.  I don't even have to _try_!  Get blown up, go for a late-night stroll, have a chat . . . Primus, how did I come to this?"  He folded his arms, in a gesture that very much made him look like he was pouting.  Delicious. 

A wide smile came to Longarm's lips, though it was easy enough to pass off as an endearment.  "Blurr," he said, scooting closer.  Blurr didn't retreat.  "Don't worry about any of that.  You worry about me too - I know you do."

"Yes Sir," he affirmed, still pouting.

"Then it's done.  What does it matter who worries over whom?  Right now, all I care about is that you're here, I'm here, and we're both alive and safe."

"But -"

"No buts," Shockwave said, wondering what would happen if he put a finger to Blurr's lips.  He tried it, and was pleased to find the metal beneath his finger grow hot, to see the pink blush appear on those lovely cheeks.  But all too soon, the little mech was turning away, averting his gaze with all of his might. 

Adorable though it was, Shockwave much preferred to have Blurr's attention on _him._ "Blurr," he said again, with that gentle voice he'd worked so hard to master.  "You know that, as far as I'm concerned, you have no reason to be ashamed of anything."  When Blurr still didn't look at him, he added, "What's on your mind?  That can't be all."

"Well Sir, if you really want to know . . ." Blurr began, after a pause that would've been considered short, were it to come from any other mech.  "I admit it.  I fancy you - maybe I have for a long time now.  I guess it just took me until last night to realize that.  But I know that I shouldn't want this.  You're my boss, and it breaks at least seven different conduct regulations, not to mention creates an odd dynamic of power and privilege, and I know that you don't care, and maybe _I_ don't even care that much - and Sentinel Prime already is convinced that there's something going on between you and I, hence whey he assigned me to this mission in the first place, but . . .

"But I don't know!  I know this is weird coming from _me_ , but everything's just happening so fast - I'm not sure if I'm even processing this right, or if I'm glitching due to everything that's happened these past few days.  I just -"  he cut himself off with a shake of his head.

"I'm sorry, Sir.  I can do this.  I can stay with you if you want - I'm probably just thinking about this too hard, but I _do_ want you to be happy, and if being with me is - Sir?"

Shockwave had risen to his feet.  This was all wrong.  If he was going to fry his logic circuits trying to pursue the enemy, it was going to be for _all_ of him.  He offered a hand to help the bot up, and hesitantly, Blurr took it.

"I think you're right, Agent.  Everything _is_ happening quite fast, and I've been much too forward.  Forgive me.  You take as much time as you need to process the situation, and decide for yourself whether a relationship with me is something you want to pursue.  I promise I won't get angry if you say no."  _Though you might end up dead for other reasons if you do,_ he did not say, surprised to feel a frustrating amount of confliction over what should have been a mundane thought.

"For now, let's head back to the wreck and make our report."

"Thank you, Sir," Blurr smiled, so wide and adoring, and innocent  . . . Maybe it would take him but a breem.  Maybe it would take him a full stellar cycle.  All Shockwave knew for certain, was that sooner or later, Blurr would be his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So stubborn - these two.  
> Kiss already!


	15. Primal Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Optimus Prime steps up to fulfill his duties as a leader, that is IF Sentinel will let him.

Optimus returned to the surprisingly merry ship, with Blurr's words weighing on his mind.  All was not right in their crew.  Sentinel was blind to it, and Optimus had willingly turned a blind-eye.  Just how much had he ignored?  He turned his optic on Bumblebee's card game, taking in the six bots spread in a messy circle on the floor, laughing and playing and having a good time.  That was the surface - what Sentinel saw, what he'd forced himself to see.  There was more to it, if only he paid attention.  He looked deeper.

Beneath the surface, he could see Bumblebee, optics wide and tinged with a slight mania, and  the desperate way he insisted over and over again, 'J _ust_ _one more round.'_ He saw the tired lines worn into Bulkhead's face plates, the way the green of his paintjob wasn't quite as deep as usual.  He saw the way that Jazz made each of Prowl's plays for him, the way Prowl sat distanced from everyone else.  He saw the Jet Twins, clinging to each other, and apart from the rest, Cliffjumper, practically clinging to Sentinel.

This was a ship that was barely holding itself together - these were bots that were scared, and lost, and desperate.  And within his spark, he felt the need to rise up, to save them.

He was a Prime.  It was his job.  He could mourn the crew he'd lost, the passengers he'd failed later, once they were safely out of the woods.  For now, his entire being would be devoted to saving those who remained.  He owed them that much.

They needed a new approach.  A mere three solar cycles had passed since the accident, and morale was already in the pits.  Sentinel had accomplished a few things, but Blurr had said it himself - he was blind to what the people needed.  It was time to listen, time to utilize _all_ of their resources.

"A credit for your thoughts, Prime?" Ratchet said, leaning against the wall beside him.  Of the lot of them trapped on this alien world, Ratchet seemed the closest to thriving.  This was the difference between a mech who had seen real war, and the mechs of the new generation, Optimus thought.

"I've been an awful Prime," he sighed in return, leaning back to join his friend on the wall.  Ratchet gave a non-committal grunt in response, encouraging Optimus to continue. 

"I'd already convinced myself as much by the time of our arrival, after all of the things I'd allowed to happen under my watch, but in doing so, I ended up transforming my fears into reality."

"Very introspective of you."  Ratchet's voice was distracted, his optics locked on the group of mechs laughing over the card game a few meters away - protective.  He was the _real_ guardian of the group; there was no contest.

"Well, you did ask."  Optimus pushed himself away from the wall, moving to face Ratchet.  "But I'm done with that now.  It was pointed out to me that Longarm Prime has also gone AWOL, and that has given Sentinel free reign to do as he pleases."

Ratchet gave a sluggish shrug.  "He's not done the _worst_ job of it.  He's gotten us information on the planet, and the jobs he's assigned - fixing the distillery, finding _where_ in the universe we are, _are_ in fact, things that need to be done."

Ratchet's words felt like a kick to the gut.  It certainly hadn't been the support he'd hoped to receive.  "You think I should let him stick to it?"

Another shrug.  "I'm not the Prime, now am I?  What do _you_ think?"

That was the question, wasn't it?  Optimus thought it over a klik.  Was there anything he could _truly_ do that Sentinel hadn't?  Could he succeed where the other was failing?  Or could the two of them (and Longarm too) manage to work together for the greater good? 

"I think that morale is dismal.  I think we have far too many bots sitting around in such dire circumstances, while their abilities go to rust.  I think we have others assigned to tasks they are ill-suited for.  I think that Sentinel expects too much from the injured, and I disapprove of the way he's handled the Prowl situation.  The last thing we need right now is an excuse to panic.

"I think that what we do need is to take stock of what everyone can contribute, and match each bot to an appropriate task, that will leave no one idle, and no single bot bearing the burden of the group.  I think as a leader, I should get to know each of my bots, build trust, do whatever it takes to build morale, to keep us from turning on each other, a fact which I fear is a real possibility."

"Is Sentinel gonna let you get away with that?" Ratchet asked, though they both knew the answer.  Sentinel was sitting at his desk (purloined from Optimus) in the middle of the room, immersed in some computer task he'd been super secretive about lately, to the point that even Optimus wasn't allowed to use his own device anymore.  The bot was the definition of petty paranoia, but the time for such things was past.

"He won't like it," Optimus agreed,  "but it doesn't matter what he likes.  It needs to be done."

"Then I wish you luck."  Ratchet rose to his pedes and began walking away.  "For the sake of everyone here.

Startled, Optimus followed the old medic.  "Where are you going?"

"Recharge," Ratchet waved a dismissive hand behind himself.  "It's late."

Looking around, Optimus found that indeed, most everyone had snuck off to their own corners of the ship to get some rest.

"Maybe it'd be best to get started on these grand schemes of yours come morning."

Optimus didn't want to wait, of course, but Ratchet was right.  No one would be receptive to his plans now, especially if they viewed him with the same disdain that Blurr had shown earlier.

"I suppose you're right," he said.  And that was that.  There was nothing left to do for the moment, and the day had been long and draining (all days were in these place).  With a heavy helm and renewed hope for tomorrow, Optimus retired to his own little corner of ship and drifted off,  even as  Sentinel continued to work into the night.

~~~

When Optimus awoke, it was to the sound of a panicked voice from nearby - Cliffjumper.  His words came with such frantic speed, that it was hard to tell just _what_ he was upset about.  Optimus onlined an optic to check.

Cliffjumper was confirmed sitting only a few feet away, and it turned out those frantic words of his were being spoken into a commlink.  "C'mon!  I'm sorry for the things I said yesterday!  I'll make it up to you, I promise!  Just answer me!"

"Cliffjumper?"

Cliffjumper leapt to attention with a jolt.  "Sir!"

Compelled by the formality, Optimus made haste to join the small mech in the land of the vertically inclined.  He took a moment to adjust his optics - to read the room.  There was a small amount of tension present, mostly centered on Sentinel and Cliffjumper, though he noticed some of the crew stirring, awoken by the chaos, trading uneasy glances amongst themselves, warily watching the scene unfold.  And then, with a creeping dread, he also noticed that one face in particular was missing from the gathering. 

_Oh no._

"What's going on?"  He asked of no one, dreading the answer.

"I'll tell you what's going on," Sentinel snarled, marching over to greet the waking Prime.  "Longarm's stupid little agent's gone missing again."

"He's not answering his comms," Cliffjumper added.

Optimus's mind was quick to jump into panic mode - he'd left Blurr alone last night.  If anything had happened to him, then Optimus was to blame.  With desperation, he tried to come up with an alternate solution.

"Are we sure he's _actually_ missing?"

"And where else would he be?"  Sentinel stalked closer, leaning in close enough that Optimus could see the grain of his metal.

"I - I don't know."  Optimus admitted, backing down.  As much as he wanted to believe Blurr was alright, he was also fully aware that he was injured, alone, and in a hostile environment.  His chances were grim, weren't they?  But Optimus couldn't give up, not without exhausting all possibilities.  There _had_ to be an explanation!

"Yeah, well I bet I do."  Sentinel turned away to survey the rest of the room.  It didn't take him long to find his target.  "Jazz!"

Jazz stood to attention, though Optimus could sense confusion flicker across his EM field.  Meanwhile, Prowl, who stood beside him, had begun to back away, as if anticipating Sentinel's orders.

"Stop him!"  The moment those thick grey fingers pointed at Prowl, the mech was flitting off towards the door.  It opened swiftly before him, even as Jazz's protestations fell on deaf audials, and Jetfire and Jetstorm raced to apprehend the stranger.  They came back in moments later, their prisoner struggling between them.

"Well well," Sentinel began, stepping forward to loom over Prowl, who ceased his struggle to fix the Prime with  defiant glare.  "Dealing with a guilty conscience, are we?"

"This is ridiculous," he scoffed, voice carefully neutral.  "I've done nothing wrong."

"Then why'd you run away?"

Prowl remained silent for a long moment, his intense optics locked on the Prime, as if trying to gauge his response.  Finally, he said, "Because I knew you wouldn't believe me."

Sentinel turned his back on the prisoner with a malicious laugh.  "Like I'd believe _that_."  It looked like Prowl hadn't guessed wrong.

Optimus didn't know Prowl, _or_ his motivations, but he had little difficulty in imagining how trying it must have been to be proven guilty without even being awarded the dignity to defend himself.  It made Optimus's tanks churn, his facial plates heat in righteous rage.  He could fix this.  If ever there was a chance to take charge, to turn their situation around, it was now.

"Sentinel," he said, stepping in.  "Hold on for an astrosecond.  We're not Decepticons.  We don't use mere suspicion as justification for incarceration."

Sentinel's optics rolled spectacularly.  "Another bleeding heart.  Am I the only one who cares about the safety of this group?"

Every optic in the room was on them now, the two Primes locked in a battle for power.  Optimus couldn't allow himself lose.

"Safety is one thing, but turning us against one-another is the opposite of what you're trying to accomplish.  Like it or not, Prowl is part of the group, and he shall be treated as such until there is undeniable proof of his guilt"  Optimus turned to face the prisoner, who was watching him with a look of transfixed wonder.  "Now, when was the last time you saw Agent Blurr?"

Prowl's face remained blank as he said, "The last I saw him was last night.  He stepped out of the ship when Bumblebee suggested we play a card game, and you followed him shortly after."

A hush fell over the room, as every bot wondered the same thing.

"Is that so?" Sentinel said, sidling up to Optimus with a triumphant smirk.  "Do tell."

"Yes, I followed him," Optimus growled, more than a little displeased with the implication in Sentinel's tone.  "We spoke.  I came back inside.  He stayed out.  I thought I could trust him to stay put."  The small spark of a thought struck Optimus, but Sentinel was butting in again before he had time to properly consider it.

"You're really good at that, aren't you?"

He was being baited.  He knew it.  He fell for it anyway.  "What?"

Sentinel was pacing now, a dark glare on his face, optics locked on to Optimus.  "How is it that every time you go out, someone you're responsible for gets hurt?"

Sentinel sure knew land the precision blows, didn't he?  Thoughts of another time, another planet, swarmed through Optimus's mind, making his spark surge and his core temperature rise.  Long-suppressed thoughts crept up on him, plagued him – the image of a face, of slim blue fingers, of a cocky smile, and of a failure that had cost him everything . . .

"Call Longarm."

The pacing ceased.  The expression of spite, of accusation, vanished.  Sentinel took a step back.  "What?"

"I said, call Longarm.  He is the only one of us that is unaccounted for, and we all know that he and Blurr are close."

A gross cackle escaped Sentinel's vocaliser.  "Are you suggesting _Longarm_ abducted him?  That's ridiculous!"

"I'm saying," Optimus interrupted, closing the distance between himself and Sentinel, rising to his full height.,  "You assigned Blurr to find Longarm Prime.  Why don't we find out if he succeeded?"

Sentinel made as if to argue, paused, thought long and hard about his answer.  When he finally seemed to find what he was looking for, he straightened up, standing taller to match Optimus in height, utterly defiant as always wherever his rival Prime was concerned.

"Longarm doesn't answer his comms.  Have you forgotten?"

 _That_ was his comeback?  Optimus had to suppress a laugh.  "Would you like _me_ to do it instead?"

Sentinel's pride promptly refused.  He whipped around, turning his back on Optimus in a rare show of defeat, and placed the call.

From the moment Longarm picked up, Optimus knew that he'd won.  The rest of the conversation only confirmed what he'd already guessed.  Victory was a sweet feeling, and one he'd been all-too-often deprived of.  Still, he needed Sentinel to admit his blunder.  There'd be no hope of future growth otherwise.

The moment the other Prime ended the call, Optimus was back on his case.  "Well?"

"Well what?" Sentinel snapped, already on the defensive.

"I'm sure everyone would like to know what you found out."

It was true, of course.  Even those who'd heard the conversation seemed to need confirmation of its implication, particularly in the case of Prowl and the Jet Twins, who still restrained the former between them. 

It was obvious that Sentinel didn't want to answer, but he was wise enough to know that refusing would only make the situation worse.  "He's with Longarm."

"So that means that Prowl was innocent after all, and that you tried to arrest him for no reason."

The look in Sentinel's optics promised retribution, but it only strengthened Optimus's own resolve.

"Release him."

Jetfire and Jetstorm looked to one another in confusion, and then to Sentinel, seeking confirmation of Optimus's request.

"Do it," Sentinel ordered, though his tone implied that he'd much rather see Prowl remain in his bonds.

Prowl was out the door the moment he regained freedom of movement, but nobody bothered to stop him this time.  The looming dispute between Primes was far more important.

"This kind of thing has to stop."  It felt strange to be in a position to lecture Sentinel, like it was the old days all over again, with Optimus as squad leader, and Sentinel the rebellious teammate with a knack for getting the group in trouble.  "What did you accomplish, aside from demeaning Prowl and scaring everyone else?"

The look of shame on Sentinel's face twitched, morphed, until the Prime was an angry tyrant once more.  "And you'd have me do what, exactly?"

"Try not jumping to conclusions, perhaps?"

"Yeah?" Sentinel said, moving closer.  "And what if he _had_ been guilty?  We go out looking for our missing mech, and he offlines us one by one, until no one is left!"

"Whoa!" said Jetfire.  "Is scary, right brother?"

"So scary."

Optimus shot the twins a scathing glare, but it was Sentinel that he responded to.  "That's ridiculous!"

"No Optimus, that's war.  That's why I'm Ultra Magnus's right-hand bot, and you are - excuse me - _were_ the captain of some cruise ship."

Optimus backed down.  Sentinel had crossed a line torn open fresh wounds to stop him in his tracks, and it had worked.  Sentinel was wrong, and his actions were going to make their situation worse, but what was there for Optimus to do?  He couldn't argue with his own failures.

"Propriety be damned, I'm not gonna sit here and listen to this drivel any longer!" Ratchet was stepping in now.  Part of Optimus felt ashamed that he needed another mech to fight his battles for him, but the rest of him was grateful to have such a fierce friend by his side.

"You got something to say, Doc?" Sentinel was trying to loom again, but Ratchet remained unintimidated, standing tall, and invading Sentinel's space right back.

"I will _not_ let you use a great tragedy as fuel for you argument.  People died!  We still might, but all that's worth to you is a few cheap shots at Optimus?!"

Sentinel deflated. "I - well _maybe_ if he'd been a good captain -"

" _Maybe_ if you'd been a good Prime!"

For the second time that cycle, Sentinel was taken aback, though the shock of the blow didn't last long.  "Excuse you?!"  He stuck his neck out, leaned in close.  "You have no right to-"

" _You_ have no right!  A prime is worth nothing if he's got no one to follow him, and as I'm sure you've noticed, you're not the only Prime around.  Based on this display, not to mention recent actions in times of duress, I think I'll be hedging my bets on a different racer."  Having said his share, Ratchet marched back to stand by Optimus's side, leaving poor, flustered Sentinel to gather the pieces of this shredded dignity on his own.  Too bad he didn't have the wisdom to keep his mouth shut until then.

"I knew you wanted my job, Optimus!  We'll just see!  When the shit hits the fan, _I'm_ gonna be the one who they'll come running to!"  He stomped off, trying to maintain the illusion that he wasn't running away with his tail between his legs.

"Ah!  Sentinel Prime, Sir!  Wait for us!" The Jet Twins were quick to follow the exit of their leader, though strangely enough, given his growing attachment in recent days, Cliffjumper didn't so much as lift a finger to give chase.  Optimus considered asking him about it, but ultimately decided against it.  No need to drag another bot into the violent glare of the spotlight so soon.  He'd gain a reputation as an interrogator, and that was not an occupation he wanted to be associated with.

"What an aft," Ratchet said, folding his arms, pulling Optimus back to the here-and-now.

"He's so convinced that we're at war," Optimus mused, fully expecting a joke or confirmation from Ratchet.  Ratchet, however, shook his head.

"Don't be so convinced that we're not."

The comment was enough to leave Optimus taken aback.  He was always the first one to put his faith in Ratchet's opinion, but was he right in this instance?  And by extension, was _Sentinel_ right?  Was it really best to not trust one another?

His thoughts fell back to Prowl.  He was surly and quiet, and obviously a loner at heart, but Optimus couldn't forget that look of mesmerized gratitude when he had stood up to Sentinel for him.  He didn't know this bot, but it was clear from his reaction that this was not a situation with which he'd had much experience.  What kind of life had he led, that kindness was such a foreign notion?  Optimus would have to be sure to have a long spark-to-spark with the mech whenever he returned . . .

If he returned, that was.

~~~

Sentinel Prime remained out long after Longarm and Blurr had returned to base.  Ratchet was the first to approach them, pulling out his diagnostic tool and aiming it at Blurr, while Optimus and Cliffjumper looked on from nearby.

"You're progressing nicely.  Good good.  Here, take this."  The medic reached into his subspace, pulling out a vial of watery, grey medical-grade energon.  "You need your strength, and it seems your tanks have mended enough to keep it down."

"Thank you sir!" Blurr took the fuel eagerly, trying his hardest not to down it all in one gulp.

"And let's take a peek at you too."  He ran the soft pink light of the tool over Longarm's frame next.  For a long time, he said nothing, optics narrowed in thought as he tried to make sense of whatever readings it showed.

"Is something wrong?" Longarm asked, his mouth smiling, but his optics betraying a sense of fear.  Optimus didn't blame him.  After his shaky awakening on the island, he would've been afraid for his health too.

"Hmm?"  Ratchet put the tool away.  "Can't say for certain.  Damn thing started glitching out.  I'd like to do a more comprehensive exam on you later, if you don't mind."

"Of course,"  Longarm replied, though the transparency of his smile was growing more apparent by the second.  "May I ask why?"

"Eh, the way your spark responded to that initial stasis lock has me nervous.  Could be nothing.  Could be a symptom of something more dire.  Either way, I'd like to be sure."

"Ah yes.  That makes sense."

Once it seemed that Ratchet had finished his say, Optimus felt justified in stepping into the conversation.  "I am glad the two of you were able to make it back unharmed."

"Me too!" Cliffjumper interjected, trying and failing to mask his relief with a stoic frown.

"Ah, yes," Longarm replied, looking at neither of them while a smile, every bit as false as before, remained plastered over his mouth.  "Sentinel caused quite the scare, I'd imagine.  Speaking of . . ." He gave the room a cursory once-over.  "Where is he?"

Optimus shrugged.  "He took off a few cycles ago, after I told him off for causing a panic.  Jetfire and Jetstorm should be with him."

"Ah."

"But while we're on the subject of Sentinel, I might as well bring this up with you - Prime-to-Prime."

"I'm listening."

"You've been gone for several days now, so I'm not certain how much of the situation you're aware of . . ."

"Agent Blurr has done an admirable job of filling me in on the events that have transpired in my absence."

"Good.  Because I think we need to affect a few changes around here."

"And I couldn't agree more.  What do you have in mind?"

Optimus never got to explain what he had in mind, however.  What he got, was a voice, small and high, and with zero regard for propriety, calling out his name.  Only one bot would have such gall.

"Yes, Bumblebee?"

Bumblebee stood proudly before him, dwarfed on either side by Bulkhead and Jazz.  Cliffjumper stepped back to let them into the circle.  "We were just talking, and well.  Prowl's not back yet, yeah?  And Sentinel's still out there, and well .  . ."  he trailed off, only for Jazz to pick up the slack.

"We're figurin', Sentinel's got a grudge to bear, and while I'm sure Prowl's a capable fighter, I don't see him taking on both Sentinel _and_ the Jet Twins and comin' out all right.  Well, it's all conjecture anyway.  There's no sayin' that Sentinel _will_ attack if the opportunity springs up, but we thinkin' we might be wanting to bring him back to the group."

"If that's all right with you," Bulkhead added.

Optimus frowned.  He'd been hoping to start delegating new tasks, and had been waiting on Longarm's arrival to do so.  Still, Jazz had a point.  Who knew _what_ Sentinel was capable of, especially in such a mood as the one he'd left in? 

"No, it's a good idea.  I think I might just go out there myself as well."  He wasn't as worried about Prowl as he figured he should have been, but stepping into the world of politics meant that he needed to pay more attention to his image than ever.  No wonder Sentinel was always so tetchy.  He flashed Longarm a guilty smile. 

"Sorry for the interruption.  We'll talk later."

"Of course, Sir," Longarm agreed, his previous unease melted away.  "The rest of us will hold down the fort here, in the event that the others return of their own accord.  It _did_ look like it might rain, after all."

"Take care of yourselves out there, Ratchet added, optics flashing a dangerous blue.  "I mean that.  I don't got the supplies to keep fixing everyone."

"Understood," Optimus nodded, processor already focused on his next task.

"Bumblebee, Jazz, you'll head east.  Bulkhead, you're with me."  Splitting up to cover more ground would prove invaluable in a situation such as this, and as history had proven, going off alone was bound to end poorly.  With those stipulations, Optimus figured that this was the best team configuration - Bumblebee and Jazz could tear through the woods with skilled agility, while he and Bulkhead could search with precision, leaving no rock unturned.  It was a simple mission.

Optimus should've been confident.  Earlier unnecessary-panic not-withstanding, the day had been uneventful, and he was sending his generally competent teammates into the field, and leaving an even _more_ competent team back at base.  Ratchet and Longarm, Blurr and even Cliffjumper were industrious, and intelligent to boot.  There was a good chance that Longarm would lead them to productivity, even in Optimus's absence.  And as for Prowl – well, he fully expected that the reluctant bot would return to them sooner-or-later, and he was _mostly_ certain that Sentinel wouldn't do anything stupid.  They'd all be playing card games together again come nightfall.

Why was it then, that he felt such a strong sense of foreboding in his spark?


	16. The Oncoming Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz tries to find many-a-thing in the storm. But what he finds is far from what he sought.

The skies were grey overhead - the first sign of bad weather since their arrival, and Jazz had a feeling they were going to be for a hell of a storm.  Already, he could just hear the roll of thunder in the distance.  He'd have to find Prowl quickly; there would be no time for fooling around.

"Hey Bee, I'm thinkin' we should split up."

Bumblebee skidded to a halt several paces ahead of Jazz, staring back with wide, wibbly optics.  "Why?"

"We're fast, but Prowl's sneaky.  He could be anywhere.  We wanna cover as much ground as we can before the weather kicks in."  He nodded to the dark clouds above, which rumbled again, as if to prove his point.

"I guess that makes sense," Bumblebee conceded, albeit with hesitation.  "I guess I'll just . . .go this way then."  He took a few shuffling steps to the right, looking back to Jazz every so often, as if hoping that he'd change his mind if he happened a glance upon those big, baby blue optics.  He would have no such luck.

"My comm's open.  Call me if anything comes up, yeah?"  Jazz smiled, hoping to pass on a smidgen of levity to the little mech.  It worked.  Bumblebee brightened up in the shuttering of an optic.

"Yeah!  I'll stay in touch!"  And off he went, bounding away with a spring in his step.  It was clear that the kid had a crush; Jazz found it all rather endearing.  Unfortunately for Bumblebee, there was little time for romance in the life of an Elite Guardsmech, though Jazz could admire his enthusiasm, at the very least.  He chuckled to himself, but that was the extent of his momentary respite.  Now wasn't the time for light interpersonal antics.  There was business to attend to.   He opened up his comm.

"Jazz to Prowl.  Are you there?"

Prowl was quick to answer, but sounded less than thrilled with the prospect of conversation.  "I knew it would be like this," he groaned.

"We both did.  I told you, you needed to get crackin' and make some friends.  Woulda had more 'n Ratchet backin' you up back there."

Prowl's reply was cold, distant.  "Well _you_ certainly weren't there to."

It was the rare occasion that Jazz found himself at a loss for words, especially in a situation he had foreseen.  And yet, what was there to say?  The truth - that he was hesitant to stand up to Sentinel Prime, that he was disappointed in Prowl's stubborn insistence on playing alone - would not fly over well, and try as he might, no easy lie would come to him.

"And I'm sorry for it," he said after a moment's thought.  "I should have, and I didn't , but I can only fight Sentinel for you so much before he gets suspicious and we both get slagged."

Prowl said nothing.

"Look," Jazz tried again, "Let's learn from today, then put it behind us.  Dwelling ain't gonna do no one no good."

Again, Prowl said nothing.  It was like talking to a wall with this one.

"Where you at?"  Jazz tried.

"Hmm?  Why?"  Prowl's sounded distracted now, though not half-so displeased as he had been before.

"Why?  So I can come haul your sorry aft back to base with me, why else?"

Prowl drew out the following silence for a long moment, reluctant to continue the unpleasant conversation.  Before Jazz could prompt him, however, he managed to find his voice.  "I find I rather like it here.  Why would I want to go back?"

Just what had that stubborn bot stumbled across?  He sounded almost mesmerized.

"Fair enough.  Come with me, stay where you are, it don't matter much either way.  But there's something else I wanna discuss."

"So discuss."  And now he was back to grumpy.

Jazz cycled a heavy vent.  He'd studied under Master Yoketron, mastered the art of meditation, worked closely with Sentinel Prime for centuries  . . . Why was it Prowl, of all bots, that got his goat?

"It's not so much a discussion as it is me showin' you something I dug up, and askin' your opinion."

Again the silence stretched on, long and heavy.  The first drops of rain began to spill from the sky, another roll of thunder rumbled over the ocean, and still, Prowl did not reply.  Had he hung up?  Jazz wouldn't put it past the bugger, but his suspicions were ultimately incorrect.  After an eternity of waiting, Prowl finally conceded, and relinquished to Jazz his coordinates.

~~~

By the time Jazz found Prowl, the light rain had transformed itself into a full-on downpour.  Fat rain drops bounced off of Jazz's plating as he ran in a steady drumbeat, and every so often, a flash of lightning would illuminate the otherwise dim landscape.

Prowl had found himself a small grove, grown tall around a softly bubbling brook.  The vegetation was lush and green, more so than anything Jazz had come across on the island thus far, and in the water, he could see a few tiny organic fish, struggling with all their might against the storm-enhanced current.  He supposed the whole thing was rather picturesque, if not a bit alien for his liking.  At least it was out of the rain.

"Nice place," He commented, shaking excess water from his plating as he strode toward Prowl.

"Yes," Prowl agreed, without taking his optics from the fish.  "Such beauty doesn't exist back on Cybertron."

Jazz thought back to his home world - from the cold grey factories of Kaon, to the iridescent glimmer of the Crystal City in the setting sun, the flicker of a million lights, biolights, neon lights, and otherwise, lighting up the landscape of Iacon like a terrestrial galaxy.  It was so different from this verdant paradise in which they found themselves trapped, but it was by no stretch of the imagination ugly.  It was an interesting insight into the way Prowl thought.  "Beauty can be found in anything, I think."

"You sound like Master Yoketron," Prowl said with a sigh, turning to face Jazz at last.  "But I like it here.  It's different, yes, but in a good way.  Look around us.  Everything's alive - in the water, in the dirt, in the sky - the very structures of the land itself.  It's wonderful."

Jazz wasn't sure he'd ever seen Prowl so happy, so at peace, since the day they'd first met, at a backstreet bar in Iacon.  "Yes, it is," Jazz agreed.  Despite the storm raging all around them, the two bots had finally found a moment of respite.  Both knew it couldn't last.

"You wanted to show me something?"  Prowl asked, getting back to the matter at hand.

"Yeah," Jazz confirmed with a small nod.  He reached into his subspace, grabbing  the item in question tightly, and holding it out for Prowl to see.

It was a small chunk of metal, gold as the ship it was pulled from, with delicate energon-based circuitry running down its sides, and converging in a severed tube at its bottom.

Prowl examined the device with a disinterested frown.  If he recognized it, it was not apparent on his face.

"What is this?"

"I found it in the woods a little bit before I found you.  I had my suspicions, but I confirmed with Bulkhead - y'know, one of the engineers from the ship, just to clarify.

"It's a stabilizer for a quantum engine core, which would, based on the state we found the surrounding area in, be the bit of machinery I pulled this from."

"Is that so?" Prowl said, examining his own servos with disinterest.

"So my question is, how does a vital engine component make its way from the engine room to this planet, when the only other wreckage that did had been near the captain's cabin, and even then, was pretty scarce?"

The glare Prowl shot him was sharp and serious - a challenge.  "I don't know."

It was a challenge that Jazz was eager to rise to.  "And isn't it strange, that this engine core found its way over here, when shortly before our arrival, our ship was destroyed by what was presumed to be engine failure."

The grinding of Prowl's teeth was audible, even over the storm that raged all around their haven.

"I'm sorry, is this a discussion, or an interrogation?"

Jazz shrugged his shoulders.  "It's a lot harder to defend you if you're keeping things from me.  All I want is the truth."

"The truth?" Prowl growled.  "The truth is that Master Yoketron has been abducted along with the protoforms he was responsible for - the future of our species, trapped in the hands of one who will use them for some foul purpose, and instead of tracking down his captor, I'm trapped here with very face of the Autobot military, forced to make nice with everything I hate just to keep my alleged freedom."

"That's not an answer."

Prowl whirled on him with fiery optics, fury enhanced by a sudden gust of wind ripping through the grove, spattering the both of them in a thick shower of wayward raindrops.

"Then here _is_ my answer.  I don't know how that engine core got up here.  I did not sabotage the Orion.  I do not have any ulterior motives.  All I want is to find Master Yoketron and go home."  His words were full of conviction, but that conviction did not extend to his demeanor.  Prowl was a cornered beast, striking out with rabid force - it was desperate and sloppy.  He was hiding something - some damning bit of evidence, and he was terrified, though the nature of his fears was unclear.

Jazz's comm went off before he had a chance to press the issue.  "You okay Bee?  Storm's gettin' pretty rough, yeah?  Want me to pick you up?"

"Jazz?  Hello?  Are you there?"  That wasn't Bumblebee.  The voice was rough with age, crotchety and loud, and even a little frantic.  Why was Ratchet calling _him_?

"Yeah, I'm here."

"Thank Primus!  Jazz - there's been  - it's - they're everywhere!  I can't - we've got to tell -"  His voice kept cutting out, leaving the meaning behind his words all but incomprehensible.

"Ratchet?  Sorry man, you're breakin' up on me.  Must be the storm."

He was answered by nothing but static.

"Ratchet?"

"Scrap.  I think he  -" More static.  The frantic tone in Ratchet's voice was getting wilder by the second.  It struck a chord of dread in Jazz.  What was going on?

"Come on!  Ratchet?"

"He - what I've done - he's angry - can't reach - storm - we have to - before - Primus!"

"Ratchet, what's happenin'?  I'm not hearing you."

Ratchet said nothing more, but shortly after, Jazz heard the telltale _ping_ of another message.  Coordinates.  Either Ratchet wanted to meet him in person, or he'd stumbled upon something horrific.

"Prowl, we need to - "  Jazz turned to face his partner in crime.  If Ratchet truly _had_ found something dangerous, then it would be best to have back up.  But Prowl was already gone -had disappeared over the course  of the call. 

Had he taken the distraction as a chance to flee?  Or was there something more menacing behind his disappearance?  Jazz wanted to trust Prowl, but it was becoming harder to do so by the day.  Prowl's disappearance might have had completely benign reasons, but if he was going after Ratchet - a Ratchet who had found _something_ that had him antsy, if not downright fearful, then acquiring backup would be more important than ever.  He opened his comm.

"Jazz to Sentinel Prime.  I -"  Nothing.  Not even static.  The storm was causing too much interference.  He tried again, this time to reach Optimus, to reach Longarm, Jetfire, Jetstorm - not one of them picked up.  Hesitantly, he put in the next call.

"Jazz!  Glad to hear from you!  I'm not having any luck finding Prowl.  Let's go back before we freeze to death.  He probably doesn't want to be out in this storm anyway."

Bumblebee's voice came through loud and clear, albeit the sound of pouring rain on both ends made hearing anything an effort. Nonetheless, the signal was strong.  Bumblebee must have been nearby.  While Jazz had more than a few reservations about bringing an inexperienced mech into such a dangerous situation, he had out-and-out fears about the alternative.  Ratchet's message had left him on-edge, he'd admit, and in the face of an unknown threat, _no one_ should have been left alone.

"Got a message from Ratchet just now - new directive.  Tell me where you at, and I'll come and get you."

~~~

The storm had only grown with time.  It was hard enough for Jazz to run, when the oncoming winds threatened to blow him off course, but poor Bumblebee, with his lighter frame, and untrained balance, kept on getting knocked right off his feet.  And that was to say nothing of the rain, which was falling in sharply-angled sheets by now, obscuring everything beyond arm's-reach in a watery haze.  He could only hope that these coordinates were in a cave, or somewhere equally sheltered. 

They didn't speak as they moved - the storm would have drowned out all attempts anyway.  Jazz had to rely on sharply-honed senses just to know whenever Bumblebee took one of his tumbles – now, for instance.  Perhaps it would've been for the best to drop the kid off at base after all.

Jazz turned, fighting his way past the wind and back to the fallen bot.  He could tell right away that the kid was mad; he would have been too if his inability to stay on his feet had been slowing down the team.  Jazz reached out a hand to help him up, but it was promptly batted away, as Bumblebee tried to shout something inaudible over the roar of the wind.  It wasn't hard to guess what he was saying.

_"I can do this on my own."_

Jazz, however, had no time for self-growth.  It had already been nearly a cycle since Ratchet had sent those coordinates.  There was no time to go back to base; every moment wasted was another moment that whatever Ratchet feared would come to pass.

He let his EM field pulse with understanding, but also urgency, in an effort to dissuade the stubborn little bot, and held out his hand again.

This time, Bumblebee took it, but his scowl made it clear that he didn't want to. 

They managed to stay on their feet for not even a measly klik before fate decided it had other ideas.  It started with a crack, neither thunder nor lightning, but a violent burst of sound that split the night, even over the howling storm.  The forest shuddered around them, as if there had been a great impact, and the already unsteady-on-their-feet Jazz and Bumblebee were thrown to the muddy ground anew.

Whatever had caused the sound was nearby, and, with a sense of looming dread, Jazz noted that they weren't far from the coordinates provided either.

"Come on!" he screamed, not caring whether Bumblebee heard him or not.  He gripped the smaller hand in his own, and took off, racing towards their destination.

Upon reaching those coordinates, it also became clear as to what had caused the earlier disturbance.  The tree was huge, it would have dwarfed even the largest of Cybertronians, and surprisingly thick, to have been knocked over by the storm alone.  Left in its muddy wake were the limbs and bodies of unfortunate neighbors, brought down in the fall.  This was the place.  Where was Ratchet?  Or whatever Ratchet wanted him to see?

A sharp tug at his EM field told him that Bumblebee was on the ground again.  When he moved to help the little guy up this time, however, he found not the stubborn, defiant glare from earlier, but a face stricken, staring with haunted optics at something pink pooling on the ground  at his feet. 

_Oh no._

Jazz followed the distinctive pink trickle of energon up the muddy slope and to the fallen tree.  The rain and darkness had obscured it before, but now he saw, plain as day, a body crushed beneath.  The plating was caked in thick mud, but there was no mistaking  jagged crest.  This was Ratchet.

"Help me dig him out!" Jazz barked back to Bumblebee, who must have heard him, because there he was at Jazz's side, pawing at the ground right along with him as they both tried and tried and tried to dig Ratchet out from his muddy prison. 

It was useless.  The earth was too soft, too pliable - no matter how hard they dug, the body only sank deeper into the ground, crushed down by the heavy tree.  Jazz had to try harder.  Ratchet was their medic - he'd already saved so many lives.  _They couldn't lose him!_

"Jazz."

Bumblebee's words echoed distantly, buried beneath the sound of the storm, and Jazz's own thoughts.

"Jazz, I can't feel his EM field."

Of course he couldn't.  Ratchet had been dead long before they'd arrived.  Even Jazz knew that much.  He knew it.  He'd known.  But he'd not wanted to believe, not wanted to accept that something so terrible could happen after all that they'd already suffered.  But there was no fighting it now, not if Bumblebee saw it too.

He leaned back on dirty knees, taking in the sight of that crumpled metal, those thick gashes,  mis-bent joints, the deathly grey paint, saving it in his memory, lest someone come back to hide the evidence later.  If there was one thing he knew, after all, it was that Ratchet's death was no accident.  He rose to his feet.

"Jazz?"

He had to be strong right now, for Bumblebee's sake, if nothing else.  Even if his spark felt numb, from cold , from loss.  Even if he feared that the culprit may still be lurking out in the shadows, ready to increase his body count. 

"We can't do anything for him right now.  Let's go back."

"Back ?"  Bumblebee must have asked.  His voice was too tiny to be heard over the storm.  But his optics told it all - the fear, the confusion.  This was probably the first body he'd ever seen. 

Jazz took the small yellow hand again, and pulled the stricken bot to his feet, holding him steady.

"Someone's gotta tell the others."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so ends THAT arc. That was only supposed to happen like, six chapters ago. Whoops.


	17. After the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cliffjumper heads up the murder investigation. He has every intention of doing whatever it takes to find the killer in their midst, and to bring him to justice.

"Collapsed canopy, likely caused by the tree.  Small lacerations on extremities - most likely acquired prior to death.  Partially severed left servo at the shoulder joint, cause unknown - potentially the tree again.  Exposed circuits show evidence of severe overheating - some of the exposed protoform of the left shoulder has been melted.  Cause - unknown . . ."

Cliffjumper dutifully copied Longarm's words into the datapad.  Theirs was a grim job, but a necessary one.  The terrible news Jazz and Bumblebee had brought back with them last night - that Ratchet's body had been found dead and half-buried beneath a tree, had left their camp in a panic, and Sentinel Prime demanding justice.  Heavy rain and dark of night, however, hampered their ability to act with expediency.  The wretched news was thus left hanging over the small band like an ominous cloud until morning.

Prowl was still gone - it wasn't hard to guess what had happened, but formality (Optimus) dictated that they find hard evidence before condemning the accused.  Ironically, the bot best-suited to performing the autopsy would have been Ratchet himself, but with his demise, the job had been passed along to Longarm.

"Cause of death . . . I'm afraid this really is outside my area of expertise," Longarm said from his position, crouched at Ratchet's side.  "And until we remove this tree and I can take a look at the rest of him, it will be impossible to make a complete assessment."

"Have you discovered any clues in examining the crime scene?" Optimus asked with grim solemnity.  He didn't want to be here, forced to treat his best friend as an ex-person.  Even Cliffjumper thought it was a bit harsh, but then again, he _was_ the one who had insisted on the investigation, so it was difficult to expend _too_ much energy on pity.

"It's hard to say.  My own ignorance aside, the heavy rainfall did much to sabotage our chances of finding the truth."

"Wonderful," Sentinel grumbled, burying his face in a massive grey hand and shaking his head.  Optimus was the first thing those vicious blue eyes fell on once he was able to pull himself free of his exasperation, and he jerked a fat, accusing finger in the direction of the other Prime.  "I hope you're happy!  A killer walks free because of _your_ kindness."

Optimus bristled beneath the accusation, EM field flickering with promises of retribution,  but when he spoke, his tone remained calm and even, even if his words were not.  "He'd be disgusted by your words."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Ratchet would not stand to be bullied by you, and I won't either!  For his sake," he muttered, hanging his head in a silent promise to his fallen friend.  The moment passed swiftly, and Optimus quickly returned to his effort at shaming Sentinel.  "We are _not_ taking Prowl in without evidence that he did anything wrong!"

"And his absence now?" Sentinel pressed, waving an arm around the murder scene, highlighting his words with a grand gesture.

"Not evidence.  No one wants Ratchets's killer brought to justice more than I, but I won't sacrifice an innocent bot in his place."

For once, Sentinel was left speechless, Cliffjumper noted with a pang of shame.  These past few days had seen Cliffjumper grow closer and closer to the Prime, eased by the distance of his own teammates.  He had worked as Sentinel's secretary before being transferred to Longarm, after all it wasn't hard to step back into the role.  The result had been an increase in affection for everyone else's least favorite Prime.  He wasn't a bad guy, once you got past his abrasive personality.  He truly _did_ want what was best for the Autobot cause, and unlike Optimus, was willing to make the hard choices to get there.

The other Autobots, likewise fell silent, reactions varying from respectful, to abashed, to speechless . . . Longarm took the lull in conversation as his cue to return to the investigation.  Optimus looked on in remorseful silence, scrutinizing Longarm's work, leaving no room for error.  Sentinel, meanwhile, had turned his back on the scene to shoot toxic glares at some laughing birds overhead, and as for Jazz - well, Jazz was leaning against a tree, arms folded and not looking at anything at all.

"I don't think it was an accident," he mused at long last, breaking the silence, and drawing everyone's attention to himself, save for the ever-industrious Longarm.

"What makes you say that?" Sentinel asked, a wicked gleam in his forced smile.

"He tried to call me before, sounded scared, but he kept cutting out due to the storm."

Looks of equal indignation fell over Optimus's and Sentinel's faces alike, while even Longarm at last spared the white mech  a glance.

"When did he call you?" Longarm said, voice carefully neutral.

"Two kliks past the 18th cycle," Jazz responded after a moment's thought.

"And you didn't think this was important to bring up until now?" Sentinel snarled, and Jazz, still outwardly cool, couldn't hide the flicker of fear that shuddered across his EM field.

"He said 'they' were everywhere.  I admit to havin' some reservations about spillin' the beans, in the event I become the next target.  But I guess in the end, there's no way to hide things and catch the killer both." 

Sentinel scoffed.  "'They?'  Sounds like the ramblings of a madmech.  Are we sure he was sane?"

The look Optimus shot Sentinel promised murder.  It was enough to shut up the insensitive Prime.  The look Optimus gave Jazz, on the other hand, was full of infinitely more restraint.

"'They' implies that more than one mech was involved, if it was a mech at all."  Cliffjumper took a moment to mull over _that._   They hadn't run into any creatures on the island that had proven threatening yet,  but that didn't mean they weren't out there.  He jotted it down in his notes under a list of possible suspects.

Optimus continued.  "That means any of us could have done it.  With the exception of Prowl, we were all in groups at the time of his death, were we not?"

He did have a point.  Sentinel Prime had run off with Jetfire and Jetstorm hours before Ratchet's death, and they had returned in the same formation.  Not that he believed their leader could have _ever_ done something so heinous.  The others, however . . .

Optimus Prime had left with Bulkhead.   Both mechs were soft-sparks as far as Cliffjumper was concerned, but they _did_ have a connection as crewmen of the Orion, and Optimus _was_ ever-so insistent on Prowl's innocence.  Had this been an elaborate scheme staged by the crew?  He added it to his list.

The other group had been Jazz and Bumblebee.  The fact that they had been the ones to report the body made their guilt seem unlikely, and Bumblebee's blatantly obvious crush aside, they didn't seem to have much of a previous connection to warrant being addressed as a 'they' that could be 'everywhere.'   On the other hand, Jazz struck Cliffjumper as the exact kind of mech to kill a bot and know how to get away with it, and Bumblebee projected an image of youth and innocence.  He would be the last bot suspected of murder, which made him all the more likely a candidate.  And just because there was no obvious connection, didn't mean that there wasn't one at all.  Cliffjumper added their names to his list.

There was one last group as well, the group that had been comprised of himself, Longarm, Blurr, and Ratchet, up to his departure.  But it _couldn't_ have been one of them . . .

"This is ridiculous!" Longarm scoffed.  Cliffjumper seemed to have missed part of the conversation while he was writing.

"You and Blurr and Cliffjumper may very well have been the last mechs to see him alive.  I need to know the details."  Optimus couldn't possibly think that _they_ were behind this!  Longarm, Cliffjumper didn't exactly trust, but he and Blurr were as loyal as they came!  Whatever 'they' Ratchet had been referring two, there was no way it was the Intel Division.

"Cliffjumper," Optimus prompted.  "Can you confirm Longarm's story?"

Cliffjumper didn't know what Longarm had told the group, but he thought back to the previous night.  "I don't know.  I was trying to apologize to Blurr, but he kept on not talking to me and it was all very stressful.  I mean, _he's_ the one who didn't answer my comm's and got everyone all freaked out, but he gets mad at _me_ anyway!""

"Cliffjumper," Longarm warned with a serious frown, urging him to get back to the point at hand.  He couldn't exactly refuse, now could he?

"But I guess Ratchet was examining Longarm for a bit, and then he left.  Nothing really exciting, I mean, he seemed kinda . . . terse.  But not like, crazy or anything, and really, when was the guy ever _not_ terse?

"Anyway, the three of us were left to hang out after that in what must've been the most awkward situation I've ever had the misfortune of experiencing.  Never leave me alone with Longarm and Blurr again.  _Please._ "

"Cliffjumper."  The look in Longarm's optic did _not_ signal amusement.  In fact, behind the murderous glare, Cliffjumper could see the faint flush of pink to his cheeks.  Good.  It was frivolous payback for two cycles of completely ignoring Cliffjumper's presence in favor of flirting with a certain blue speedster.

"Yeah, so anyway.  We stayed like that until _you_ showed up, Sentinel."

Sentinel folded his arms, grumbling.  "Fine.  You've got an alibi.  _I've_ got an alibi.  Optimus has an alibi, Jazz has an alibi, and the others do too.  So either someone is lying, or our culprit is Prowl."

"And we won't act until we know which it is," Optimus assured, though he seemed to be losing the battle with his temper.  "Now let's get him out of there.  I don't think this crime scene is going to give us any more information."

Sentinel looked as though he wanted to protest, but he had no real reason to.  With a reluctant huff, he agreed, then knelt down to push the massive tree off of their fallen comrade.  The rest of the group was quick to his aid, and soon enough, Ratchet's body was liberated from its grave.  Once face-up, it became clear that there was more to Ratchet's death than a mere tree.

"I think we found the cause of death," Cliffjumper breathed, joking in the face of trauma.  He didn't miss the poisonous glance Optimus shot him in response either.

Ratchet's entire windshield had been smashed, as if someone had been trying to reach his spark chamber in a hurry.  Underneath the shattered glass and dented metal, however, there was a strangely precise incision - not quite surgical, but hardly a wound inflicted on a struggling opponent, at least in Cliffjumper's opinion.

Longarm was already examining the open chest, looking for further clues.

"The puncture is 15.2 centimeters long, and about thirty deep - deep enough to pierce the spark , if only just.  It looks as though he was stabbed, most likely by a thin, bladed weapon."

Sentinel's frown turned grim.  "And this is this what killed him?"

"Most likely," Longarm confirmed.

"Well, who do we know who uses small, bladed weapons?"

It was probably meant to be a rhetorical question, but Cliffjumper thought it over anyway.  Sentinel, Optimus, and Blurr all used bladed weapons, but certainly nothing small enough to make such a precise incision.  The Jet Twins favored energy attacks, Jazz had blunt nunchaku, and he was pretty sure that Bulkhead also favored blunt weapons.  Longarm's hook would've been hard-pressed to kill anyone in the way on display, and as far as he knew, Bumblebee had no lethal weapons on his body - merely the tools his profession allotted.  There really was only one answer.

"You've made your point," Optimus gave in, unable to take his optics off of Ratchet's corpse.  "From now on, we are to consider Prowl as a threat, and will take the proper measures to protect ourselves, and bring him in."

While glad that Optimus had finally come to his senses, Cliffjumper still couldn't help but feel that there was more to the murder than what had been found.

~~~

Optimus was the one to carry Ratchet's body back to base.  With some help from Bulkhead and Longarm, he buried his fallen friend near the heart of the crater, just behind the ship,  and at Bumblebee's request, they held an impromptu funeral.  Most bots managed to say a few words, to pay their respects - Longarm, Blurr, Bulkhead, Bumblebee even, all spoke fondly of Ratchet, of his wisdom, his dedication, of their gratitude towards him for saving their lives.  But when it came time for Optimus, the bot who knew Ratchet best, to eulogize, no words were to be found.

Ratchet's death had hit him harder than anyone.  He left the gravesite in silence, dipping into the sanctuary provided by the woods on his own, and just this once, nobody bothered to stand in his way.  Optimus needed some time alone; everyone could agree on that.

As for the rest, there was still business to attend to, and though their camp was in mourning, that didn't change the facts.  Prowl was out there, and he had to be stopped.  Jetfire and Jetstorm were sent to scour the island for the traitor, but that was only the first step.

"Cliffjumper," Sentinel Prime said, pulling him to the side of the ship, his voice hushed.

"Yes sir.  How can I help you?" he asked with an eager smile.  He was always keen to prove his worth to the great Sentinel Prime.

"I've been thinking, we've got our perpetrator, but there are still a few details of this case that are bothering  me."

"Like what, Sir?" Cliffjumper asked, already pulling his datapad to take notes.

"We never did figure out that 'they' that Jazz was on about.  I don't like it."  Sentinel scratched his chin, deep in thought.

"You think he was right?  About Prowl's potential accomplice?"

"I think we'd be fools to ignore the possibility."

Cliffjumper frowned, looking up from his pad.  "But the only bot he was really close to was Jazz.  Why would Jazz out himself?"

"I don't know, Cliffjumper," Sentinel said with a shrug.  "Jazz is a sly one.  He might be playing us, or he might truly be innocent.  I don't care either way.  What I want is for you to interrogate him, and anyone else who strikes your fancy.  We're going to get to the bottom of this, one way or another."

"Yes sir."

~~~

Jazz wasn't hard to find, which was unusual in itself.  Usually he was the first to take to the woods, often with Prowl in tow.  In retrospect, that behavior was rather suspicious.  But today he stood fast, looking over Ratchet's grave with an unreadable expression, obscured in part by his visor.  Cliffjumper felt that the position was better suited to Optimus.

"What's kickin?" Jazz asked, turning around with a smile before Cliffjumper had even made his presence known.  He should have expected as much from Jazz, but it took him by surprise nonetheless.

"Gah!" he jumped, causing the other bot to chuckle.  It was embarrassing, and Cliffjumper badly wanted to chew him out for it.  So he did.  "What are you doing just popping out at folks like that?!"

"My bad?"  Jazz didn't sound remotely apologetic.  It would have to suffice though – he hadn't exactly done anything to apologize for.  Yet.

"Ugh, look, never mind.  I'm here to talk to you about Prowl."

Jazz's good humor evaporated in an instant.  "Yeah, I figured as much.  Was honestly expecting Sentinel though."

Just what did _that_ mean?!  "Well, you're getting me.  Sentinel's busy."

"Okay.  I dig it."  Jazz raised his hands in surrender.  "Ask away."

Cliffjumper stood as tall as his meager height would allow, trying his hardest to cut a sophisticated image.  Jazz had a tendency to take lightly all but the most severe of orders, and Cliffjumper was in no mood to be brushed off.

"You and Prowl were close?"

Jazz shrugged, an action flippant enough to grind Cliffjumpers's gears.  "Not really."

"Not really?!  You were together all the time!  And you were the first to vouch for him, were you not?"

Another shrug.  Cliffjumper grit his teeth. 

"Both true, but that don't mean we was tight."

"Elaborate."

"I knew him long as any of you.  I could tell by the way he moved that he'd trained with Master Yoketron, a fact which he confirmed for me.  I trusted the master's judgment, and thought the guy deserved a chance.  Regrettin' it now."  He turned a solemn glance at the grave.

It seemed a solid story as any.  If Jazz was lying, then he was good at it (though it wasn't an unlikely notion).  Cliffjumper decided to change topics.

"Tell me about last night."

"Not much to tell.  Bee and I went lookin' for Prowl, and split up to cover more ground.  That's when I got the call from Ratchet.

"He sounded right scared of something, but it was hard to tell what, 'cause he kept on breaking up.  In the end he sent me some coordinates, and I grabbed Bee and made my way over.  Took about a cycle due to the weather."

No holes there either.  Cliffjumper didn't know what else to ask.

"Why do you think he did it?"

Another resounding shrug.  "Who knows?  Seems everything I thought I knew about the guy was wrong, so I wouldn't put much stock in my opinion."

"Good point."  It was probably a crass thing to say, but Cliffjumper wasn't exactly known for his restraint.  Either way, this conversation was over.  It was time to talk to someone else.

~~~

Optimus was the only other living mech to have vouched for Prowl - rather insistently, at that.  It was worth a try to ask him.  Cliffjumper was on his case the moment he walked through the door of their ship, the piney scent of the woods still lingering about him.

"I got a few questions for you, if you got a minute."

Optimus raised an optic ridge.  "About what?"

What else?  "Prowl.  Care to answer?"

His face said no, his EM field said no, but his mouth said  "I suppose so."  It was concession enough.  Cliffjumper continued on with a clear conscience. 

"Okay, first question!  Why were you always so quick to step in on his behalf?"

It was clear from the icy look in Optimus's optics that he was in no mood for Cliffjumper's accusations.

"Because it was the right thing to do.  I'd do it again, even now, because i don't believe anyone should be imprisoned without cause."

Ah, the optimistic drivel of a civilian Prime.  Cliffjumper didn't know the exact details of the event that led to his removal from the military academy, but with that attitude, it wasn't hard to imagine.  Cliffjumper gave a dismissive nod.

"Okay, that's fair.  Next question."

Optimus continued right on staring at him; the intensity behind that gaze was beginning to make Cliffjumper feel rather like he was being dissected.

"Uh," he began, a bit shaken.  "So, why do you think he did it?"

"I don't," said Optimus, with not even a hint of hesitancy.

"You don't?"  Cliffjumper lowered his data pad, too surprised to keep scribbling.  "But you were there!  You saw Ratchet's spark chamber!  How can you still think  -"

"I think it's enough evidence to bring him in.  But whether or not it confirms his guilt is up in the air.  Ratchet carried scalpels on him, it's not out of the realm of possibility that someone managed to get their hands on one.  And even if that wound _was_ made by Prowl's blade, we still don't know what went down."

"But the only guys out there were your team, Jazz's team, and Sentinel's team.  You think one of _them_ did it?"

That was enough to get the resolute Prime to avert his gaze.  "I don't know."

Cliffjumper grumbled.  "You know what _I_  think?  I think you want Prowl to be innocent, because you're the one who insisted he walk free.  I think you're looking for a reason to not blame yourself for Ratchet's death!  That's what _I_ think."

And right on cue, that intense gaze was focused on Cliffjumper again, boring straight through to his spark.  How could such a seemingly-upstanding guy have such a creepy side to him?

"I think you should leave."

"Uh yeah, I think so too," Cliffjumper backed away.  Best not to invoke the wrath of Optimus.  He may have been naive, but he was still a Prime.  Cliffjumper didn't want to see him lose his temper.  There were others to investigate anyway.

~~~

Bumblebee was surprisingly withdrawn when it was his turn to talk.  Cliffjumper had never seen the kid shut up in the entire ten days he'd known him.  It was almost surreal.

"How'd you know Prowl?"

Bumblebee raised an optic ridge, annoyed at the banality of the question.  "Are you kidding right now?  The bastard only tried to kill me the moment he woke up."

It _had_ been a stupid question, to be fair.  Bumblebee had scarcely uttered two words to the suspect since that day.  "Right, of course.  But you didn't press the issue?"

Bumblebee itched an invisible scratch on his faceplate, averting his optics, as if he had something shameful to hide.  Cliffjumper added ' _shifty'_ to his notes.  "Jazz thought he was okay, and Optimus too.  I thought they knew better than me.  Hah!" He laughed, a bitter, hollow sound.

"So why do you think -"

"He killed Ratchet?  Maybe 'cause he's an evil psycho!  I'm sorry, are we done here?  I don't wanna talk anymore."

It didn't seem like Cliffjumper would be finding any useful information from the little bot today.  With a nod, he sent him on his way.

~~~

It was Bulkhead's interrogation that proved the true treasure trove.  The engineer usually kept to himself, rarely interacting with anyone other than Bumblebee.  It was easy to write him off as some dumb lugnut, but Cliffjumper was quick to find that the bot was unusually perceptive.

"Why do you think he did it?"

"I think he was afraid."

_That_ was an answer he hadn't heard yet.  "Of what?"

"That someone had found out what he was up to."

Cliffjumper froze.  "Sorry, what?  You think he was up to something?"

"Jazz did," Bulkhead shrugged.  "Kind of surprised that it was _Ratchet_ who ended up dead though.  He'd never done anything but vouch for the guy."

"Wait, wait, wait," Cliffjumper waved away whatever it was Bulkhead was saying.  " _Jazz_ thought so?  He didn't say any of that to me!"

"I mean, I don't really know why Jazz does anything, but . . ."

"What did Jazz think he was up to?"

"I don't know."  Cliffjumper's face fell, but Bulkhead wasn't done.  " I can tell you what _I_  think though."

Cliffjumper leapt at the chance to urge him on with a resounding "Yes!  Please!"

Bulkhead reached up with three massive digits to scratch the back of his head as he recalled events.

"So the other day, Jazz came up to me with something he found in the woods, over by where Blurr got blown up."

"Yeah?"

"Weird thing was, it was part of one of the Orion's engines."

"Wait, what?"  What did _that_ mean?

"A stabilizer for an energy core, to be precise.  One of twelve - part of some experimental technology that I'm not really supposed to be talking about."

One word caught Cliffjumper's attention over all of the others.  "Experimental?  They let us on a ship with experimental engines?!"

Bulkhead shook his head.  "They were perfectly safe when running normally.  Finding this core all the way out here does, however, explain how they _might've_ failed."

"Are you saying Prowl destroyed the ship?!"  Cliffjumper's voice became a good deal more shrill than he'd intended.  He felt the situation warranted it, however.

"Not exactly.  But if Prowl took that core, it definitely could have destabilized the engines enough for something else to set them off."

Cliffjumper shook his head to clear it.  Being responsible for the death of Ratchet was one thing, but being responsible for the deaths of some thousand innocents?  Cliffjumper hadn't actually expected to find the saboteur in their ranks, and yet . . .

"Why would he steal part of the engine?"

Bulkhead didn't even have to think his answer over.  "Like I said, it was new and experimental technology.  Even a piece of one engine (and it would have to be a piece.  I don't know if you ever saw those engines, but they're _huge!)_ but yeah, even one piecewoulda sold for a whole lotta credits.  Though it was supposed to be super secret.  Makes me wonder how the buyer found out.  Or Prowl, for that matter."  He trailed off, lost in his train of thought.  It was no matter.  Cliffjumper had what he wanted - a legitimate motive.

The only real question he had left, was why Jazz hadn't mentioned any of this during his interrogation.  Jazz was a secretive bot to be sure, with who-new-how many schemes cooking in that untrustworthy head of his.  If he wasn't directly working with Prowl, then at the very least, he knew much more than he'd let on.  Cliffjumper had an Elite Guardsmech to see.

Only, when he returned to Ratchet's grave to confront the mech, Jazz was no longer there.  Nor was he in the ship, in the crater, the surrounding woods, or even the nearby beach.  It wasn't unusual behavior for Jazz, but the timing of it all made Cliffjumper suspicious.

Where was Jazz?  What did he know?  And how did he _really_ know Prowl?  Those answers would have to wait.  For now, he'd report his findings to Sentinel Prime, and await further orders. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffjumper finally gets a POV! Yay!
> 
> Also, just to inform y'all, I AM going back to edit some of my typos, as well as minor continuity errors. Alas, the downside to writing one chapter at a time, sometimes you forget which character you had do a minor thing. That, or the Jet Twins just kinda turned into Ratchet between chapters. Oh well.


	18. Deep in the Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bumblebee's reluctance to cooperate with orders results in nothing but trouble, as he's dragged into the investigation in a most unexpected manner.

Bumblebee's world was in tatters.  Even two days after the fact, Ratchet's death remained a heavy weight on everyone's minds.  No one laughed or smiled these days, not even the usually enthusiastic Jetfire and Jetstorm.  And when Bumblebee brought out the Fullstasis, no one wanted to play.  Jazz would've played with him, but he was gone too, disappeared not long after the funeral.

Cliffjumper thought he was up to something, but Bumblebee and Bulkhead feared worse.  He'd apparently known some rather damning facts about Prowl.  If _that_ was what had killed Ratchet, then how long did Jazz have?  Bumblebee hoped to Primus he was okay, wherever he was.

It wasn't fair.  Being trapped on this hellish, green island was bad enough, but now his two favorite mechs, save for Bulkhead, were gone, and their group was all the worse for it.  Bumblebee was angry, full of righteous fury and the demand for justice, but from his vantage point, it seemed he was alone in this regard.  The others talked a good game - paid their respects, had the decency to appear melancholic when addressed, and certainly the event was being looked into by Sentinel and his goons, but outside of the investigation, everything continued on as normal.  The mundanity of it all was almost offensive.

Optimus, despite his obvious despair, has most-admirably not forsaken his duties to mope, and had fought Sentinel for the right to make a few changes.  As such, Longarm had replaced Bumblebee as Bulkhead's assistant, and in the first day alone, had managed to steer Bulkhead into repairing all of the damage his blind tinkering had caused.  A few cycles more, and their energon crisis should have been behind them.  Bumblebee didn't know where the Intel guy had learned so much about engineering, but even his jealously couldn't stand in the way of his gratitude.

Due to the requisitioning of Longarm, Blurr had taken over the task of locating their wayward group.  The Prime had already done much to narrow down the search, but Blurr could still be found sitting for cycles at a time scouring over Longarm's data pads, cross-referencing and drawing charts.  In a sparkbeat, he could absorb a deca-cycle's worth of information.  It seemed that, at long last, they'd found some use for that irritating glitch of his.

Strangely, Blurr and Longarm both had taken up the habit of disappearing off base for cycles at a time, and with Sentinel's new restrictions in place, they always did so together.  Bumblebee had a guess as to what they were doing, even if they did insist that they were out on business.  Business!  Yeah right.  Bumblebee bought that as much as he bought the notion of Jazz as a traitor! 

The remaining military mechs, meanwhile, had made the easy transition from scouting the island to hunting down Prowl and Jazz.  The Jet Twins had taken to the skies, while Sentinel and Optimus scoured the ground in shifts - one bot in the field, the other manning home base.   Cliffjumper finished off the group, adamant in fulfilling his most-infuriating task of interrogating everyone and anyone in regards to Ratchet's end.

All that left was Bumblebee - forbidden from leaving the base on his own, but dissuaded from remaining idle.  His was a hopeless existence.  He'd been assigned the glamorous duty of hunting down supplies to refine into energon once better bots got the distillery up and running, and to follow his own rules, Sentinel was forced to pull someone from another task to accompany him.  Due to arguably being the second-least-useful bot in the camp, this job usually fell to Cliffjumper.  Life was, in short, a nightmare.

Cliffjumper, with all of his training and centuries of military service, had never made the Elite Guard, and after a few days of working with him, it quickly became clear as to why.

The bot may have been bright, but he was also paranoid, quick to jump to conclusions, responded rather poorly under pressure, and was an all-around aft.  Bumblebee recalled, with some resentment, the pain and humiliation of being thrown into Sentinel Prime's side back on their first day in this hellhole.  He could now add daily interrogations, beratings, disregard for personal space, _and_ having to listen to him bad-talk Jazz to the list of reasons to hate the guy.

"I'm telling you, they've been working together since day one.  Everything's there on the page." He tapped the screen of his data pad with his pen to illustrate his point.  "Prowl stole the engine core, Jazz planted the explosives as a cover up!" 

Bumblebee looked up from his position on the rocky shore of the beach nearest camp, the waves gently rolling in and out.  They felt nice against the metal of his legs.  In his hand, a wriggling crustacean struggled to escape its captor.  He'd been wondering if organics could be utilized as an energy source, but at Cliffjumper's rambling, the question was promptly forgotten.

"That makes no sense!"

Cliffjumper lowered his datapad, narrowing his optics.  "You doubt what's on the datapad?"

Bumblebee could _feel_ the rage welling up from his core.  He was not in the mood to deal with this right now.  "I haven't even seen the datapad, 'cause someone is keeping it top secret."

"Of course I am," Cliffjumper responded with pride.  Bumblebee shook his head.

"Yeah, well I don't even care what you've got written there.  It's clearly wrong!  Pretty much anything would be a better explanation than what you just said!"

He could hear the _tap, tap tapping_ of metal as Cliffjumper tapped his pen against his datapad once more, deep in thought.  "Are you saying that _you_ did it?"  Half-shuttered optics stared at Bumblebee in a triumphant sneer, but it shortly melted away into suspicion as he contemplated the possibility.

"What?!  No!" Bumblebee protested, before Cliffjumper could get to thinking _too_ hard.  "I just know that Jazz isn't the kind of bot to do something like that!"

Cliffjumper let out a sharp bark of a laugh.  "Then you really don't know Jazz."

He was _really_ angry now.  Bumblebee tossed aside his wriggling organic, which landed in the ocean with a tiny splash,  and crawled on hands and knees away from the source of his ire (who notably was _not_ doing his share of the searching), trying his darndest to focus on his work.

"Though come to think of it . . . that kinda _does_ make a weird amount of sense."

Bumblebee twitched.  "What?"

"They woulda needed someone on the inside - an engineer, hoping for a cut of the profits.  Someone unestablished, with no future to throw away."

He couldn't believe his audials.  "Are you actually accusing _me_ of conspiring to sabotage the ship?  Accusing me of killing all of those -" He cut himself off.  He didn't want to think about how many people had actually died on that ship.  It had been so easy to ignore when they were a far-off possibility.  People didn't _die_ , least of all people that he knew.  But Ratchet's passing had forced a change in Bumblebee, and brought his entire reality crashing down on its head.  Death was abundant and random and took good people and bad people, friends and enemies with a cold, neutral detachment.  He was only now beginning to see it.

"I just - no.  I had nothing to do with that."  He rose to his feet.  This was pointless - the conversation, the fruitless search - everything.

"Of course.  Bumblebee's too _naive_ to do anything like that."

"What's _with_ you today?" Bumblebee snarled, storming out of the water.  "Can you please just stop saying bad things about - well - everyone for an astrosecond?!  You're not helping!"

"I've got my orders," Cliffjumper's lips thinned into a prim frown.  "Sentinel wants me to sniff out traitors, so that's what I'm trying to do here.  Or do you _want_ another Ratchet?"

"Shut up!  Shut up shut up!"  The urge to punch in that ugly face was rising, and Bumblebee struggled to refrain.  Cliffjumper was a pain in the aft, but also trained to fight, and of higher rank to boot.  There was no way taking that action would end well.

"If you're gonna bury your head in the sand, then you're already well on your way to being the next victim."

"Would you _listen_ to yourself?!"

"I am listening.  To everything.  I tried it Optimus's way.  Let folks do their thing.  And look where that got us!  If we'd been more strict, more suspicious, then Ratchet would still be alive - Pit, we wouldn't even _be_ in this mess right now."  His former conviction vanished in an instant, as the meaning behind his own words took root, and Cliffjumper flopped to the ground with a despaired grunt.

"Cliffjumper?"

"Nobody gets it.  Sentinel's only looking out for everyone's best interests, but no - Optimus and Longarm and _Ratchet_ all gotta make him the fool!"

"Are you okay?" Bumblebee inched forward, cautious, fearful that any move could set the bot off.

Cliffjumper was moving before Bumblebee had made it even two steps, barreling toward him at top speed, before coming to a stop mere inches from his face.  "I am.  You guys aren't."

That was close enough.  Bumblebee could practically smell the energon Cliffjumper had ingested for breakfast, they were so close.  It made his empty tanks rumble in anticipation.  He hadn't eaten in days, though by Sentinel's choice, rather than his own.  With a burst of hunger-driven fury, he shoved the red bot away, griping and growling all the while.  "You know what?  I'm done talking to you.  Have fun finding ores on your own.  Bumblebee is outta here."  He stalked off in the direction of base, as Cliffjumper's shouts rang out behind him. 

"Off to get your friends?!  Did I find out too much?  Am _I_ gonna be the next body stuffed under a tree?"

Memories flashed before Bumblebee's optics at those cruel words - the bright pink glow of energon, spilled on the ground, luminescent, even in the storming darkness, the deathly grey pallor of Ratchet's broken chassis, the feeling of despair, denial, the fear that any of them would be next.  He grasped at his helm, trying to crush the gripping thoughts from his head.

"Bumblebee?" Cliffjumper's voice brought him back to reality, grim and painful and hopeless.  The awful bot was near, a servo resting on Bumblebee's back plating in a failed attempt at comfort.  "I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to - sometimes I say things, and -"

Bumblebee shook off that unwelcome hand.  "Can we just . . . not talk about this right now?  Focus on finding something to eat for when Bulkhead gets that stupid machine fixed?"

"I suppose," Cliffjumper said with some hesitancy.  It was clear that he did not want the conversation to be over.

The silence reigned with mercy for a few cycles following, with Bumblebee and Cliffjumper uttering only the most necessary of directions to one-another.  Bumblebee took it upon himself to make the executive decision that there was nothing to be gained by staying on the beach, and so the two diminutive bots found themselves journeying deep into the forest, sparks never fully devoted to their quest, as both were too busy watching the other to properly seek out energon sources.  Eventually, their trek led them to a small series of caves scattered about a verdant hillside, complete with colorful wildflowers and a bubbling waterfall.

"If we're gonna find anything, it'll probably be in one of those," Cliffjumper observed, breaking that sweet, sweet silence.

The notion had merit, but Bumblebee was hardly keen on going into an enclosed space with a bot he neither liked nor trusted.  After all, the thought had occurred to him that, for all his vehemence, Cliffjumper just as easily could have been the killer himself.  Feeling anxious, he took a faltering step back.

"What?" Cliffjumper asked, backtracking once he realized he was no longer being followed.

"I just remembered, I forgot my mining gear!"

Cliffjumper cocked his head, wearing a suspicious frown.  "What do you got, like stingers?  You can't transform 'em?"

He could, of course, but Cliffjumper didn't need to know that.  "I know, it's pretty lame, but I keep my stuff with Bulkhead. Don't tell anyone?"

Did he believe the lie?  The bot was stalking nearer and nearer, all business.  "Then I suppose we should go get it."

Something sharp dug into Bumblebee's back - a tree branch.  He'd gone and gotten himself cornered like a newbie.  He took another step in retreat, this time to the side and around the obstacle.  "No, that's okay!  I'll just pop back to camp.  Won't take but a second!"

"You're lying."  Cliffjumper affirmed with a dark glower.

"Lying?"

"You just don't wanna be here with me anymore - making up transparent excuses to get away."  Well, he wasn't wrong.

"I -" Bumblebee tried to find the words to defend himself, but none would come.  It was no matter.  Cliffjumper didn't seem keen on letting him finish anyway.

"Just ignore Sentinel's orders!  Ignore the fact that there's a killer on the loose.  Gotta make sure Bumblebee's happy!"

"Happy _and_ alive," Bumblebee at last protested. 

Cliffjumper froze, his jaw growing slack as the implication dawned on him, and he stared, Optics skewed with disbelief.  "You think _I'm_ the killer?"

"I think you could be.  Either way, I'm not goin' into that little cave with you alone to find out."

An entire conversation unfurled upon Cliffjumper's faceplates in less than a klik.  Affront to anger.  Doubt to anger.  Rage, back to anger, to resignation.  "Fine.  I suppose that's fair.  I think _you_ could be the killer too, after all."  He paused, as if affording Bumblebee the chance to respond, but he was talking again the moment Bumblebee opened his mouth to do so.

"You just . . . run back to camp on your own, and if you run into Prowl, then _you_ suffer the consequences.  And meanwhile, if your absence gets _me_ killed, then I'll make sure to let everybody know it's your fault."

It was probably meant to dissuade him, but where Cliffjumper saw disapproval, Bumblebee saw permission.  "Great!  Thank you for understanding!"

"Wait, that's -"

"I'll see you back at camp."  Bumblebee was darting off into the safety of the trees before Cliffjumper could stop him, his only regret, being that he hadn't the chance to see the stupid look on Cliffjumper's face at losing the battle so horribly.

He switched to alt mode, to hasten his escape, rolling over the forest floor with a speed that was not incredibly safe, all things considered.  He'd be picking forest detritus from the grooves of his tires for decacycles, but he didn't care.  All that mattered was escaping that awful Cliffjumper and getting back to base in one piece.

He didn't see the body until it was too late to stop.  The figure had flitted in from above, straight onto his path, and he plowed right into it at full speed, unable to even brake.  The impact sent Bumblebee spiraling out of control, and straight into the nearest tree, while his victim went flying.

It took his poor, scrambled processor a few moments to come to its senses, but before he could even recall his name, his body was beginning the painful transformation process back to root mode.  He must have broken something in the crash; it shouldn't have hurt so much.

"Why don't you watch where you're going?!"  The words left his mouth with no thought at all, directed at a bot whose identity he hadn't bothered to take in.  But when the world stopped spinning, and the blacks and the golds of the other mech's armor slotted into place, Bumblebee found himself wishing that he'd swallowed his pride and stayed with Cliffjumper after all.

His fight or flight programming took over, and though instinct told him to run far and run fast, while his enemy was still too startled to hurt him, vengeance had other ideas.  He leapt at the bot, transforming his stingers with a snarl.  "You!"

Prowl, however, seemed less-than-eager to engage, to put it lightly.  To put it more bluntly, he was barely holding on to consciousness, collapsed in a heap on the ground, struggling to crawl back to his feet.  But crippled though he was, he remained far from helpless, as Bumblebee found out when he decided to strike.  Prowl rolled lazily out of the way of the electric blast, and lobbed a blade Bumblebee's way, knocking him back to the ground.

Bumblebee expected that Prowl would've finished the job right quick, so he was rather surprised to find that, not only did he have the time to get back up, but that, when he did, Prowl was still crouched in the same spot, gaze unfocused and vents struggling to keep a steady stream of air.

"Yeesh, you don't look so good," Bumblebee taunted, strolling forward.  Prowl said nothing.

"Looks like you could use . . . a doctor."

Prowl's face snapped up at the accusation, and he leapt aside again, as another wave of concentrated electric energy was shot his way.  He didn't make it very far this time either.  Either Bumblebee had hit him harder than he'd thought, or Prowl had been injured prior to the collision.

Perhaps sensing the inevitability of his failure to escape, Prowl turned his attention wholly to Bumblebee, lowering his blades in resignation.  "I didn't kill him."

The audacity of such a claim!  It was an insult to Bumblebee and Ratchet's memory alike!   His stingers buzzed violently, ready for a third assault, to at last avenge his fallen companion.  "Like I believe that!" 

"I don't care if you believe me or not.  Your beliefs have no bearing on the truth."

Prowl seemed so earnest, jaw hard-set and face pointed at Bumblebee's own, rather than at the stingers that sparked dangerously in his hands.  Would it be so bad to humor the traitor?  Optimus would approve.  Would Ratchet?

"Okay, I'll bite.  You didn't kill him.  Then who did?"

Prowl remained resolute as he answered, face unreadable and tone even as ever.  "I don't know."

"Bah!" Bumblebee rolled his optics.  "Some use you are!"

"He was burning form the inside; it was killing him.  He asked me to help him."

_That_ was news.  The others couldn't have known about this!  He was going to interrogate the hell out of this bot.  He briefly lamented the fact that he didn't have a datapad on which to take notes.  "Help him?! By what, _stabbing_ him?!"

"Yes."  Bumblebee couldn't believe his audials.  Prowl actually expected him to believe that he had caused the fatal wound, but not Ratchet's actual death.  It was enough to disrupt his concentration, and the pulse of his weapons flickered uncertainly in response.

"I . . . beg your pardon?"

"His fans had failed and his spark was overheating.  He asked me to cut a -"

"So you do admit to it!"

"I didn't kill him," Prowl protested, calmly as ever.

"Then what did?"

Of all things, it was that question that thrashed Prowl's resolve.  He didn't know how to answer; Bumblebee had found the hole in his story!  How typical.  For half a nano, Bumblebee had almost believed him.

"I . . . don't know.  Spark failure, I think.  He was too far gone, by the time I got there."

"Yeah?  And how'd you know where to find him, eh?  Jazz had to get coordinates messaged to him personally."

"Is this an interrogation now?"

Bumblebee brandished one of his stingers, the hum of electricity like a fog horn in the silence of the forest.  "Answer the question."

Prowl tried to release a frustrated ex-vent, but his fans stuttered, and he coughed instead.

"Well?" Bumblebee was feeling relentless.  Why should he show compassion towards a known killer?

The scowl Prowl shot him was obvious, even from beneath his visor.  "I overheard his comm to Jazz, and thought that if I was trying hide from the others, the grove behind the big tree would be the first place I went. "

Whatever Prowl had been saying had suddenly become irrelevant.  He'd uttered the one word guaranteed to snag Bumblebee's attention.  "Jazz?""

This time, Prowl's ex-vent was successful, and he released a weak, but indicative sigh.  "He was trying to convince me to come back with him when Ratchet called."

Bumblebee's optics grew wide.  "He found you?  He didn't tell _me_ that!"  He wanted so hard to believe that Prowl was lying, that Jazz had no secrets, and yet . . .

"I'm not surprised.  Jazz doesn't tell a lot of people a lot of things."

"I don't believe you," Bumblebee mumbled, but even _he_ could admit that the protestation was weak.

Prowl shrugged.  "Doesn't change the truth." 

At those words, Bumblebee felt all of the fight drain out of him.  He rather wanted to go back to base and put this whole affair behind him.  But how could he?  The elusive Prowl was right here!  This was his chance to, as Optimus liked to put it, hear his side of the story.  Ratchet would have wanted it, he was certain now!  And at the very least, the bot didn't seem to be in any state to hurt Bumblebee regardless.

He lowered his stingers.

"So, let me get this straight.  You met with Jazz, overheard Ratchet's message, ditched Jazz to find Ratchet on your own, because . . . ?" He trailed off, hoping for Prowl to fill in the blanks within his own story.  He was not disappointed.

"It was a matter of expediency, and I assumed that Jazz would waste time hunting you down to make certain _you_ were safe."

The words brightened Bumblebee's gloomy mood, if only a little.  Jazz cared about him enough to seek him out in a storm - cared about his safety.  It brought a smile to his lips, tiny, but the first he'd bore in awhile.

"Yeah, okay," he continued, words hard, but tone light.  "So you went to that grove on a whim, and there he was, but he was sick?"

"Correct.  I found him groaning in pain on the ground.  He'd even smashed his own windshield in a fervor while trying to get some ventilation to his spark.  I suppose his chest panel had melted shut."

Bumblebee cringed.  Whatever tale Prowl was springing sounded like a tortuous way to go.  Had Ratchet really suffered so much?  And just when had he gotten so sick?  He'd been fine when Bumblebee and the others had left, right?  Try as he might, he couldn't remember clearly.  He just hadn't been paying that much attention to Ratchet at the time - what a fool he'd been.

"So he asked you to stab him."

"If that's how you insist on describing it."

Bumblebee ignored the dig.  "But it didn't work, and he died, and then you left.  Why?"

"Because I knew I would be the one blamed for it," Prowl said with no hesitation.  For the first time, Bumblebee began to realize how hard it must have been for Prowl.  Nobody had thought to accuse _him_ when he and Jazz came back with news of their morbid discovery.

"Well, you got that right," he said, with a little less conviction than he'd intended.  The story checked out, but there were a few things that left Bumblebee guessing.  "So what about the tree?"

Prowl raised an optic ridge.  "What about it?"

"Don't play that game with me!  Why did it fall?"

He received a small shrug in response.  "Is that what that sound was?  It happened after I left.  Could have been the storm, could have been something else.  It's impossible for me to say."

So not _all_ of the mysteries could be resolved so easily, it seemed.   "Okay.  And you've been on the run since."

"Yes."

"And you injured yourself?"

Prowls' mouth twisted into a frown.  "Ratchet gave me a list of doctor's orders when I woke up.  But being on the run from the Elite Guard has made following them all-but impossible.  I've been able to stave off the worst of the pain through meditation, but -"

"Well, maybe if _Ratchet_ was still here, you wouldn't be in this mess!" he couldn't resist saying, as cruel as it was.   Perhaps he _was_ innocent after all - it didn't change the fact that Ratchet was gone, and everything was awful now.

Prowl fell silent, staring at his own servos in contemplation.  Was it guilt he was feeling for killing Ratchet, or guilt for failing to save him?  Bumblebee didn't know for sure, but he was beginning to find himself convinced that Prowl was not the cold-sparked killer that Sentinel had made him out to be.  Pit, maybe there _was_ no killer after all, save for sudden, untimely illness.  Could Ratchet's call have been the hallucinations of a sick and dying mech?  Who knew?

"Sorry, forget that I said that.  I got another question for you.  Where's Jazz?"

Prowl looked up from his servos, tilting his head slightly in confusion.  "Jazz?"

"Yeah, Jazz!  He's been missing since Ratchet's funeral."

Prowl's gaze fell back to his lap.  "I haven't seen him since the night of the storm."

That answer wasn't good enough for Bumblebee.  He pressed on.  "Bulkhead thinks that Jazz knew too much about you, and my initial thought was that you killed him for it.  Got anything to say otherwise?"

It was the first sign of untamed emotion Prowl had shown in the entire time they'd known one another.  He drew back with an affronted growl.  "Of course he knew about me.  He's the one who brought me here in the first place."

Bumblebee froze, optics wide.  "What do you mean?" he asked, when he at last found his words again.

"I mean that Jazz -" But whatever he'd intended to say was lost, silenced by a rustling in the bushes to their left.

It was barely perceptible to Bumblebee's audials, but Prowl noticed immediately, struts going rigid in panic.  He struggled back to his feet, and disappeared in an instant, leaving Bumblebee to his fate.  Within seconds, however, he was back, held tight in the strong arms of Jetstorm.

"Well, well.  What have we here?"  Sentinel's scornful voice came forth from behind.  Bumblebee turned to greet him with a grin.  He'd learned so much - _valuable_ information!  Finally, he'd proven his worth!

"Sentinel Prime!  I just found out -"

"I'm sorry," Sentinel cut him off, with a contemptuous sneer. "I don't listen to traitors."

Traitors?  Before Bumblebee could find the words to protest, however, he was being hoisted from his feet, held in a chokehold to the chest of Jetfire.  He struggled feebly against those powerful servos, but it was for nothing.  Jetfire's hold didn't budge.

"Let go!" he choked.  "What are you doing?!"

Sentinel stepped into the center of the path, in clear view of Bumblebee and Prowl both, proudly puffing his chest, as if he'd accomplished something important.  "Prowl and . . . you," he nodded at Bumblebee with disgust.  "You have been found guilty of treason in the highest degree.  With the power invested in me by Ultra Magnus, I hereby sentence the two of you to death."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was late, so I only managed to proofread once. I apologize for any glaring errors.


	19. Loyalty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blurr finds himself filled with a creeping doubt. Is Longarm Prime really the trustworthy mech he's always believed him to be?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I went and drew some pictures for this because reasons u.u
> 
> [Here's](http://darksidekelz.tumblr.com/post/123355929044/today-on-episode-2-of-pimp-my-fanfic-i-was) one for chapter 9.
> 
> And [ here's](http://darksidekelz.tumblr.com/post/123176161314/illustrated-a-scene-from-one-of-my-fanfics-mrrf) one for chapter 13/14.

The presence of a killer in their midst had always been a possibility, as far as Blurr was concerned, but he never would have imagined Ratchet as the victim.  The mech had survived the Great War, and even in the days preceding his death, he'd maintained a level head, even as the others buckled in the face of such uncertain times.  If anyone were to survive this trial, it should have been him, a fact which led Blurr to further contemplate the manner of his demise, in search of answers.

Prowl was the obvious suspect, of course, but he also wasn't a fool.  Blurr had his doubts that the shady stranger would behave so recklessly, when every eye was on him.  He was a more likely scapegoat than suspect, and try as he might, Blurr couldn't begin to imagine a motive. 

In fact, it was hard to imagine a reason that any Autobot should want to kill Ratchet.  The only bot present who took any issue with the old medic was Sentinel, but Blurr was hard-pressed to pin the brutal murder of one of Cybertron's great, unspoken heroes on the Prime, even if he was awful in every way.

And moreover, how had Ratchet died in the first place?  Cliffjumper had been interrogating the others all evening, and while Jazz's disappearance was something to note, he had trouble reconciling fact with the alleged evidence.

Ratchet had been examining Longarm before his departure.  His speech and manner prior to the exam had been grouchy as usual, but afterwards, he'd seemed somehow different - spooked, perhaps.  And Blurr hadn't missed the haste with which Ratchet took his leave.  It made him wonder what had gone down during the exam - not that he thought Longarm had done such a horrible thing to one of their own, of course.  The thought was laughable!

There was one more question that weighed heavily on Blurr's mind, even if he did not care to admit it.  Self-centered as it felt, the fact remained that Blurr was still injured, and had been relying on Ratchet both for med-grade energon rations, and treatment.  What was he to do now, with the doctor gone, and his full-recovery still elusive?

His answer came from a somewhat unexpected place.

Longarm approached Blurr on the evening of that first night, with empty servos and a mysterious smile on his face.

"Come with me," he'd said, offering no further explanation.  The only clue left to Blurr was Longarm's parting words to Sentinel, a quick, "We're out on business - be back in the morning."

Sentinel sputtered and growled and protested, but ultimately, they were allowed to go their own way.

Their destination turned out to be Longarm's cave, dug into a lush green hillside, one of many.  It probably appealed to the head of Intel due to its inconspicuous nature - even now, it was one of the few remaining unexplored venues of the island.  They made their way through the twisting tunnel of the cave's inner walls all the way to the energon stockpile in its deepest belly.

"Sir, if I might ask, why have we come all the way out here?" Blurr piped up when he could no longer contain his curiosity.  His processor was already jumping into high gear, imaging possibility after possibility, some tame, some wild enough to make his spark burn with desire and his engine rev.  He forced himself to dismiss those in the latter category.  He shouldn't - couldn't be with Longarm.  It wasn't proper.

Longarm smiled back at Blurr, optics half-shuttered with serenity and fondness, even if he had to look up to meet Blurr's own optics.  "The truth is, I've been worrying about you all day.  With Ratchet gone, somebody has to take care of your health, and after Ratchet, I had the most medical training."

"You, sir?" Blurr asked, bordering on surprised.  Elite Guardsmechs were given basic medical training, should the need arise for such on the field, but Longarm, skilled though he was, was not Elite Guard, nor had he ever given any inclination as to his medical abilities.  To learn of them was both a shock and a relief.  "Color me impressed!  I was unaware that you had such a broad skill set, but you're so wise and smart, it only makes sense that you'd study as many subjects as you could."

Longarm laughed, a motion that shook his entire body, and yet remained somehow, subdued.  "You flatter me, Blurr," he said with a smile in his voice, before pulling out his own version of Ratchet's diagnostic beam.  "But let's get down to business, shall we?" 

Blurr stood up a little straighter as the device came to life under Longarm's sure hand, and a soft, purple light emitted from it travelling right through his frame. 

"Ratchet performed his operation on you, what? Five solar cycles ago?"

"That's correct."

"And he gave you a deca-cycle before you were allowed to run again."

"Yes Sir."

Longarm flicked off the device, satisfied for the moment.  "You're recovering quite nicely.  I'd say even a little ahead of schedule.  I'll need to check the status of those internal welds, however, just to be certain.  Would you allow me access to your medical port?"

Blurr froze.  Having Ratchet's mind wandering through his circuits was nothing to get excited about, merely medical procedure - he could handle that.  But somehow, when Longarm was the one on the other end of the hardline connection, what was once clinical touches and detached analysis became infinitely more intimate.  He was being foolish, he knew.  Longarm doubtless had only Blurr's best interests in mind, and it was this, or risk further injury down the line.  He didn't have the luxury of being picky.

"It's all right if you don't want to.  We can just -"

Blurr thrust out his arm, retracting the panel which covered his medical ports.  He had to stay calm; this was a necessary procedure - a professional encounter, nothing more.  It wasn't as though Longarm was asking to interface interface with him.  Blurr shuddered at how juvenile the thought sounded.  Get over yourself, Blurr.  You can do this!

"I won't be long," Longarm said, voice soft and gentle.  It didn't do much to ease Blurr's nerves, but he appreciated the gesture anyway.

"Don't hurry on my account, just do what you gotta do!  You need to know what's going on if you're to help me to recover, after all.  I'll get over my embarrassment at the thought of you being in - well - nevermind!  I'm sorry Sir, I admit you've got me flustered, and I'm saying stupid things.  Just ignore me and get on with the procedure."

The warm chuckle which escaped Longarm's vocaliser did even less to help his predicament.  The pleasant, low rumble did all kinds of scandalous things to Blurr's systems; his vents kicked up to disperse the excess heat his rapidly-pulsing spark created - furthering his embarrassment.  It was with a knowing grin that Longarm added an, "As you wish," before jacking in.

Blurr didn't know what he'd been expecting.  He'd shared this kind of connection with plenty of bots in the past - it was part of his job, after all - and this time was no different.  He felt the dull buzz of Longarm's presence within his processor, sifting through the relevant files - damage reports, internal diagnostics, external hardware summaries, integration analyses - it was all very clinical, as if Longarm were every bit as much a doctor as Ratchet was.  But knowing that much wasn't enough to keep Blurr's thoughts from racing, to stabilize the rapid pulsing in his chest.

"Blurr?" Hearing the sound of his own name only exacerbated his problems.  Was he trembling?

"I'm sorry Sir!  I'll try harder."  Longarm was hardwired in; strong reactions would just impede his ability to concentrate, and elongate the process.  Blurr shuttered his optics, focusing on the roar of air passing through his vents, and tried to stay calm.

"Alright, I'm done" Longarm said after an eternity, retracting his cable back beneath his own medical hatch.  "I apologize for causing you such distress."

"What? No sir!" Blurr leapt in to defend Longarm from his own accusations, true as they may have been.  "You don't have to apologize for anything!  I know you're only trying to help; it's my own fault that I'm behaving like a protoform!"  He paused for a nanoklik, feeling calmer than he had all day.  The awkward experience was over, and he more-or-less foresaw no more surprises in his immediate future.  All at once, his vents slowed, his internal temperature cooled, and he was able to think clearly for the first time in cycles.  It was a liberating sensation.  "What did you find out?"

"Hmm?" Longarm grunted, legs carrying him back to his feet unassisted, in a manner that was simultaneously charming and rather unsettling.  He wandered over to the energon stockpile, and began fiddling with some instruments buried behind three layers of glowing cubes, attention half on Blurr as he did so.  "It's as I expected - your glitch enhances your body's natural internal repairs, as well.  It seems that the welds have done their job - if we still had access to Ratchet's tools, I'd say they were just about ready to come out."

Blurr pondered over Longarm's words, fretting over the implications.  "Is that going to be a problem?"

Longarm shook his head.  "Not any time soon, no.  They're made out of good material, so it'll be a few vorns still before they go to rust.  We'll just make sure to get them out when we get back to Cybertron."

If they got back to Cybertron.  Blurr had his doubts, of course, and even if they somehow managed the feat, who was to say that they'd back it back within the allotted timeframe.  He filed the thought away in the back of his processor, as something to fret about later.  There were other matters that were more pressing.

"Does this mean I can run again?"

Longarm pursed his lips, pondering over the answer for far too long.  "We'll have to ease you into it, regardless, but I'd say hold off for a few days, just to be safe."

A sinking feeling overcame Blurr.  Longarm was right, of course.  It would be safest to wait, but his feet were itching to fly over the ground beneath him once again.

A small flask of soupy grey liquid was held out in front of his face, easing him back from the dark sense of longing brewing within his spark.  "What's this?"

"It's med grade.  Drink it."

Longarm was trustworthy as they came, but Blurr couldn't help the misgivings from filtering in.  A few days ago, the energon stockpile had been in place, but there had been no med grade to be seen, he was sure of it!  "Where did this come from, if I may be so bold as to ask?  Ratchet was the only one of us who carried any, as far as I  was aware."

"I synthesized it myself," came the proud reply, and then, in response to the skeptical look on Blurr's face, added, "It's perfectly safe."  He pulled the flask back to his own lips, taking a shallow sip to prove his point, before offering the bottle back to Blurr.

Blurr wasn't satisfied, however.  "How did you make it, sir?  The energon distillery back at base isn't online yet."

"This is true," Longarm confirmed, offering a solemn nod.

"So how then, were you able to synthesize this?"

With the air of a bot forced to betray his secrets, Longarm gestured at the pile of cubes which lined the wall, illuminating the room in their blood-violet glow.  "I admit, I was able to construct one of my own in my brief absence."

"And you didn't tell anyone, Sir?"  Blurr didn't know how he felt.  He wanted to be angry, but this was Longarm!  There wasn't room in his processor to link his cherished prime with such a negative emotion.

"Everything's happened so fast," Longarm tried to explain.  "Rathchet's death, Prowl and Jazz's absences - I just never got around to it."

"Bulkhead's been working on ours all week - how were you able to construct one from scratch in three days?"

A sly smile crossed Longarm's lips.  Pulling that sultry expression out mid-argument should have been against the rules.  Blurr faltered. 

"I'm the head of Intel, Blurr.  I have knowledge of many things."

"Medicine and engineering," Blurr conceded with admiration.  "You truly are amazing, you know that, right?"

Longarm's reply was another hearty laugh, and making use of his stretch-ability, he pulled Blurr in close for a one-armed embrace.  He'd won the argument before it was begun.  Blurr hadn't stood a chance.

"But if it suits you," he continued, "I'll do what I can to fix up the distillery back at base.  That lot needs something to focus on that isn't Prowl."

Blurr swallowed a hitch in his vocaliser - they were so close right now, he was certain Longarm could hear the pounding of his spark, which would have been a feat, as his fans were screaming at full volume once again.  It was a miracle that he was able to say anything at all in response.  As it was, his words came out in a flustered stutter.  "Y-yes Sir!  I think I'd like that quite a bit."

He drowned the flask of med grade in one big gulp.

~~~

His time spent alone with Longarm was quickly becoming Blurr's only respite from the doom and gloom of the other sixty percent of his current existence.

Tensions ran high at camp, between Cliffjumper's interrogations and Sentinel's mere existence.  Blurr counted himself fortunate that he was mostly allowed to keep to himself.

Longarm had kept true to his words, and with some persuasive assistance from Optimus, had gotten right on top of fixing the distillery in the captain's cabin.  Blurr didn't know why he insisted on letting Bulkhead take the lead, when he surely could have done it faster, but that was probably just some kind of Prime thinking that he didn't understand.

In the meantime, Blurr had landed Longarm's old job, which was both essential, and rather boring.  There were thousands of moons and planets to dig through in this sector of the galaxy alone, and most required extensive research and cross-referencing, and in some cases , good old-fashioned computational work in order to rule each out.  And again, there was always the nagging possibility that their current home had yet to be discovered by the galaxy at large.

At least Longarm had managed to narrow down his search, rather drastically in the grand scheme of things.  They'd landed somewhere in the northeastern sector of the galaxy, between New Avalon and the mysterious, and rather poorly-documented realm of Alpha Q.  It was far from home, but on the bright side, there was only one Decepticon planet in the otherwise neutral zone.  Their return home should have proven all but impossible, had they crashed upon less-friendly lands.

Despite the knowledge, however, no matter how hard he worked, Blurr didn't feel any closer to locating their group, and even if he were to succeed in doing so, what then?  Without an interplanetary communication device, they were stranded indefinitely.

And so, two days passed in this manner, with Blurr working tirelessly through the day and night, and occasionally sneaking back to the cave with Longarm, usually to rest.  As appalled as he'd been on that first night to find that he'd allowed himself to fall asleep on top of his superior officer, he was beginning to realize that it was the only way for him to get any rest at all these days.  Longarm was warm.  Longarm was kind and gentle and the picture of serenity.  Longarm was safety.  The fact that Longarm did nothing to discourage this insubordinate behavior was met with both stubborn frustration and undying gratitude from Blurr.  Sooner or later, one of those emotions would have to win out over the other.  He wasn't sure which it would be yet.

"And where do you think you're going?" Sentinel demanded, turning away from the computer he'd been so absorbed in seconds prior.

"I'm sorry, are we not allowed to leave the base?  There are two of us," Longarm responded, calm in the face of Sentinel's thirst for control.  Even hehad to give pause; most bots would have been abashed by the accusation.  Not Longarm.  Alas, the respite from boneheaded leadership was short-lived.

"And I say, 'where are you going?'  The both of you have vital jobs to do, and yet you keep right on disappearing.  Not very Prime of you, Longarm."

He was right, if only about the necessity of their jobs, but Blurr took offense anyway.  There were so many things he longed to say to the detested Prime, if he only had the rank to get away with it.  Fortunately, Longarm was there to back him up.

"With all due respect, my task to fix the distillery has been completed, leaving Blurr's health as my primary concern.  And Blurr here has been working tirelessly to locate us, and at this stage, has made more progress than even I could manage.  That being said, as acting physician, it is my duty to ensure that he gets proper rest and physical therapy - he is still injured, after all, and it is in all of our best interests that he gets better soon."

For the second time that conversation, Sentinel was left speechless.  It seemed to Blurr that Longarm could argue his way out of anything.  It was a most-admirable trait.

"F-fine!  Go do your thing - your 'physical therapy,' if that's what you're calling it," he said, complete with air quotes.  "Just - I expect to be seeing some results soon, if you two are to continue behaving like lovesick protoforms."

"What?!  But we're not-" Blurr tried to protest, but Longarm had beat him to it.

"Of course, Sir."  He took Blurr's hand within his own, and led the still-protesting mech out the door, away from the still-glaring Prime, and into the woods.  Once they were safely out of earshot of Sentinel and his allies, Longarm relinquished Blurr's hand, and turned to face him with a patient quirk to his lips.  "Sometimes it's best not to argue."

"But he's wrong.  He seems to think we're blowing off work to go - well -" Blurr cut himself off, too embarrassed to continue.  "Oh Primus, I ambehaving like a lovesick Protoform.  I can't even bring myself to say it."

Longarm's warm laugh did little to ease his mind.  "Don't worry about it.  We know that his accusations are incorrect, but it's not an issue worth pursuing at the moment, not when there are larger issues at hand.  You have to pick and choose your battles with that one."  With an almost shy reluctance, he reached for Blurr's hand again, and Blurr offered it up a bit hastier than he'd intended.   They pressed onward.

As much as he wanted to melt into even that minute contact, Blurr couldn't keep another more pressing idea from coming to his mind.  "Sir?"

"Yes?" Longarm responded, falling back to Blurr's side for ease of conversation.

"Do you think that I could, well, maybe I was thinking that -" his glitch made hesitation all but impossible, and soon Blurr found himself growing flustered as he tried harder and harder to hinder his own request.  "See, when you mentioned physical therapy earlier to Sentinel, and well, it hasbeen a few days, Sir . . ."

"Blurr?" He had little doubt that Longarm knew what he was hinting at, but the Prime clearly wanted him to come out with it on his own.

"I was wondering if it would be all right for me to run to the cave.  I defer to your medical knowledge on this, but really, I do feel much better, and it's been so long since I've been able to - it's driving me nuts."

In infuriating response, Longarm's steps slowed down, as he pondered the notion.  Blurr forced himself into a slow-motion crawl just to keep pace.  "Sir?" he whined, hoping to hasten the verdict.

Longarm shook his head.  "I don't trust your systems are ready for that kind of exertion," he trailed off.  Blurr must have had the most crestfallen expression on his face, for something in Longarm's demeanor promptly changed, and he looked away with a cough.  "But I do agree that we need to get you up and running again, so here's my offer:  I will run, and you will keep pace with me."

Blurr considered it.  He'd never seen Longarm run before, but based on his portly stature, Blurr couldn't imagine he was all that fast.  At a brisk walk, he could probably keep up with Longarm's sprint. It made his plating itch just thinking about it.  "Your alt mode is faster than your root mode, correct?"

Longarm shuttered his optics, taken aback by the question.  "Yes, I suppose it is, if only a bit."

"Switch to your alt mode, and we've got a deal then!"  It would be slow going, but running was running, and he could not wait to get back to doing what he did best.

The tell-tale sound of a t-cog activating was his confirmation, and Longarm, in the guise of a small crane, went rolling off over the uneven terrain.  His oblong wheels, tilted so that most of their mass was off the ground, were ill-suited to the area, - Longarm moved with careful precision rather than speed to make up for his lack of mobility, but it was still faster than Blurr had been allowed in days.  He took off at a slow jog, overtaking Longarm's head start with ease.  After the initial burst of speed, keeping pace was a maddening effort, but one that Blurr was grateful for.  How good it felt to have the wind at his face, to kick up the dust behind him.

"Do you feel alight?" Longarm asked.

"I feel amazing!"

"I'm glad."  Longarm's powerful engine revved, and he put on an extra burst of speed.  Blurr kept up with no effort.

~~~

Longarm's frame was not built for speed, alas, and it didn't take long for the poor mech to overheat.  From there on in, the going was much slower.  It was fine by Blurr though.  He'd developed a most unpleasant stitch in his abdominal plating from even that much exertion.  It was best to take it easy for now.  This way made for better conversation anyhow.

"I've been wondering, and forgive me for bringing this up - I know we've only just escaped the misery of camp, but I have to know - who do youthink killed Ratchet, Sir?"

Longarm's hook raised and lowered in an approximation of a shrug.  "Prowl does seem like the obvious culprit."

"Which is why I don't buy that he did it," came Blurr's cheerful response.

"Oh?"

"He'd have to be pretty stupid to pull a stunt like that when everybody already mistrusts him."

"I agree," Longarm said, after a moment's thought.  "Who then, do you think did it?"

It was Blurr's turn to shrug.  "I'm afraid I don't have enough information to make any solid judgments, Sir, but I'm having a hard time believing that it was any of us.  Maybe there's someone else on this island?  Sentinel's team hasn't discovered our cave yet, after all.  Who's to say that there aren't others hiding out?"

Longarm paused as he pulled up to the cave's entrance.  "I wouldn't be too sure of that previous point,."  He reverted to root mode, brandishing his hook in hand.  "Draw your weapon and stay behind me."

Blurr did as he was told, and soon both mechs were trudging through the cave, movements fraught with caution.  When they rounded the corner - when their path lit up with the violet glow of energon - that was when their fears were put to rest.

"Cliffjumper?" Blurr squeaked.  In response, the bot in question jumped, letting the energon cube he held in-hand fall to the floor with a crash, the glass shattering on impact, and spilling its precious contents all over the ground.  "Blurr?!"

Blurr took several steps into the chamber, leaving the safety of Longarm behind him.  "You scared us half to death!  We thought you were, well, and enemy or something - I guess that's what we thought anyway."

Cliffjumper's optics narrowed and he stomped towards Blurr with a haste that Blurr had not anticipated.  He took a startled step back, in spite of himself.

"What is all of this?!" Cliffjumper gestured furiously around the room, but Blurr knew what in particular he was referring to.  He eyed the energon stockpile, feeling a sense of guilt rise within him.

"Oh that."

"Oh that?!"  Cliffjumper's  anger underwent a hasty transformation to full-on rage.  He stomped forward, until he was less than a meter from Blurr, leaning upward in a futile effort to match the mech in height.  "When were you going to tell us about this?!  We're out there starving to death, we have nothing to make energon with, and here you are, sitting on a fraggin horde!"

Blurr took a few more steps back, noting with apprehension the relentless way in which Cliffjumper pursued.  "We were going to tell the rest of you," he tried, repeating Longarm's earlier explanation, but Cliffjumper was having none of it.

"You had plenty of time!  You've had all damn week!  What, were you and Longarm over here sitting on all of this energon, laughing at the rest of us?!  What were you thinking?!"

"It's not like that!  We just-" he cut himself off, painfully aware that Cliffjumper was trying to back him into a wall.

"I bet you did it, didn't you!  You and Longarm!  You somehow poisoned Ratchet, and have been over here laughing about it ever since.  I can't believe I trusted you!"

"That's quite enough," Longarm  stepped between the two, easily pushing the smaller Cliffjumper to the side.  "You know that is not true, and in regards to the energon situation, that blame lies entirely with me.  Blurr had nothing to do with it, so you will leave him be."

"Nothing to do with it?!" Cliffjumper scoffed.  "It's enough that he knew and did nothing."

"At my behest," Longarm insisted.  "You will take your issue with me, and leave innocent mechs alone."

Blurr watched with passive interest as Longarm talked Cliffjumper down.  The bot had a way with words, that much was certain, but in his spark, he knew that Cliffjumper was right to be angry.  they had kept their food supply a secret, for reasons that made so much sense when Longarm had explained them, but now, when he truly thought about them, were inexcusable.  And then there was the matter of Cliffjumper's other accusation.

Blurr pulled up previously-discarded memories - Ratchet had been fine before he'd examined Longarm, through a hardline connection.  If it was in his nature to do so, then Longarm easily could have infected Ratchet with a virus - he was certainly skilled enough in engineering and in medicine to manufacture such a thing.  The more he thought about it, the more sense it made.  A dark pit took root deep within his tanks.  Could Longarm,his Longarm, have been behind Ratchet's murder?  It couldn't be.

Blurr was dragged from his thoughts by a distant scream, which effectively put an end to Longarm and Cliffjumper's argument as well.

"What in the world?" Longarm mustered over the shock of it all.

"Was that Bumblebee?"  A look of dawning dread overcame Cliffjumper's facial plates.  He'd been assigned to duty with the little guy, come to think of it.

Bumblebee was in danger, but with any luck, he was still alive.  Speed was essential in this matter, and no one knew speed like Blurr did.  Shedding all regard for his own welfare, he leapt into high gear, fleeing the cave and protestations of his teammates, and following the sounds of the struggle.  He skidded to a halt at his destination within a klik, panting and hurting, but also ready to ignore the pain and leap to action should the need arise.

The situation he walked into was a strange one.  Sentinel stood with his battle lance at the ready, already dripping in the vivid pink of spilled energon.  At the feet of Jetstorm, Prowl lay, unconscious, bleeding, and dull, but not yet the deathly grey of the deceased.  In Jetfire's arms, Bumblebee writhed like a snared best, trying to avoid the blade that was currently pointed at his chest.

"Sentinel Prime?!" Blurr panted out.

Sentinel nearly dropped his lance, so surprised was he.  "What are you doing here?!  I thought you and Longarm were engaged in 'physical therapy!'"  Blurr didn't miss the score dripping from  Sentinel's voice.

"I heard the screams,  and figured that someone was in danger, so I came running," Blurr answered on automatic.  "But what are you doing?"

"Blurr, thank Primus!  You gotta help me!  Sentinel's gone nuts!"  The Prime turned again and lunged forward with his spear, but a protestation from Blurr stopped him short.

"Sir!"

With reluctance, he pulled back, resigned to the fact that he would have to explain his actions, should he wish to complete them.

"I'm executing traitors."

It was hard not to laugh, but that would have been horribly inappropriate.  "Traitors?  Bumblebee?!  You can't mean to tell me that Bumblebee killed Ratchet?!"

Sentinel rolled his optics, as if they were discussing a discrepancy in engex over oils and ores, rather than the matter of another bot's life or death.  "He was found consorting with Prowl."

That was it?  Blurr fought to keep the disgust from his face.  "What did Bumblebee have to say for himself?"

"I'm innocent!  I swear, I'm not a traitor!"  Bumblebee cried out, before a speechless command from Sentinel had Jetfire muting him with a hand over his mouth.

"It doesn't matter what he says.  Bots lie when their chassis are on the line."

Was this for real?  Blurr racked his processor for an argument to make without breaking rank - hopefully Longarm and Cliffjumper had had the sense to follow him.

"Sir, don't you think that judgment and execution are a lot of power to be held in the servos of one bot?  Maybe we should call in Optimus or Longarm as a second opinion?"

Rather unexpectedly, Sentinel whirled on Blurr, who had to leap out of the way to avoid taking a lance to the windshield.

"Sir, why are you attacking me?!"

"You're one of them, aren't you?  That's why you and Longarm keep sneaking off!  You're conspiring against me!"

Blurr narrowly dodged another blow.  His movements were getting sluggish - not enough to afford Sentinel the opportunity to land a hit, but more than enough to have him worried.  He hoped his body was merely protesting from recent underuse.

After the third botched attack, Sentinel seemed to realize that attacking a bot famed for his speed was a pointless endeavor, and lowered his spear.

"Sir please, this is madness.  I haven't done anything wrong - I'm as loyal to the cause as they come!  But you can't just go around killing bots because they disagree with you!  You're not gonna have any followers left if you start doing that!"

"Jetstorm," Sentinel growled, voice carrying a threat.

"Sir, I am not to thinking this is being a good idea," the blue jet protested with a feeble wobble in his accented voice.

"Execute Agent Blurr."

Blurr's attention snapped to Jetstorm, who stepped forward with uncertainty.  Sentinel, he could dodge with ease, but in his current state, avoiding a jet could be a problem, if the need arose.

"Jetsorm, you don't have to do this!  Just think for a minute!  I'm not a traitor!  Bumblebee's not a traitor!  I have my doubts that Prowl is even a traitor!  You gotta stop before you do something you'll regret later!"

To his credit, Jetstorm did, in fact, stop, looking back to his Prime with questioning optics.

"Just do it!" Sentinel urged, a burning madness on his face.  Before Jetstorm could so much as budge, however, another voice joined the conversation.

"What is going on here?!"  Thank Primus.

Longarm raced onto the scene with Cliffjumper in hot pursuit, both bots panting for air as their vents worked double-duty after what must have been a heavy drive.

Sentinel turned his attention to the new Prime, a wicked gleam in his optics.  "Longarm, nice of you to join us."

"Jetifre, Jetsotrm, stand down!"  The two bots froze at Longarm's order, looking between once-another, before once again turning to Sentinel for guidance.

"You can't order my mechs, Longarm.  I outrank you, or have you forgotten?"

"I would like to move to assume command from a bot who is temporarily unfit to lead.  May I have a second and third?"

"I second!" Blurr leapt on the chance before Longarm had even finished speaking.

Sentinel barked a cold laugh.  "Good luck finding a third in the Elite Guard."

"I third," Jetstorm spoke up, at barely a whisper, igniting all sorts of fury in Sentinel's face.  At least that Prime still had control-enough over his emotions to restrain himself.  For the first time ever, Blurr felt a sense of admiration for a bot that had been so easy to write off as a mindless lackey.  Jetstorm had shown real courage in his protestation.  Knowing Sentinel, he would probably pay for it later.

"Very well, then," the Prime at last relinquished with a sneer.  "You lead."

Longarm, despite his small stature, stood tall, and strong, with such a presence, that even the mighty Sentinel looked small.  "We do not execute our own soldiers without strong evidence against them.  We do not have that for Prowl, and we sure as the Pit do not have that for Bumblebee.  I don't care you what you think you saw them doing."  With zero regard for whatever reply Sentinel was trying  to come up with, Longarm rushed to Prowl's side, kneeling for a closer look, and pulling his diagnostic beam from subspace, to perform a cursory check.  "He's still alive.  I'll get him stabilized, and we'll return him to base for a proper trial."

He shot Sentinel a scathing look, which, much to Blurr's surprise, the other Prime buckled beneath.  "Bumblebee will be brought in for a proper interrogation.  And you will refrain from doing anything further than making arrests in the future.  Is that clear?"

"This is ridiculous," Sentinel muttered.

"Is.  That.  Clear?"  There was no room for protest in Longarm's voice.

"Fine, fine.  Jetfire, Jetstorm, stand down."  This time, the jet twins obeyed without hesitation.  Jetfire was even showed surprising remorse when he lowered Bumblebee back to the ground.  Bumblebee, of course, didn't take note of the gesture, and zipped away from the jet at a speed that even Blurr could admit was fast, hiding behind the steadfast form of Longarm Prime.

"Well then," Sentinel said, backing away.  He'd lost the battle, yet still maintained the promise of vengeance in his demeanor.  "Have fun with your army of traitors.  I'll make sure that Ultra Magnus hears of this when we get back!"

"Likewise," was all Longarm said, but the severity in his tone was enough to triumph over Sentinel's bravado.  Soundly defeated, Sentinel dismissed his lance, and turned his back on the scene, though it was telling that this time, his jets weren't at his heel the instant he moved to leave.  While the twins inevitably bowed to the will of their own personal savior, Cliffjumper seemed to be having second thoughts.

"Cliffjumper," Sentinel called back.  "Are you with me?   Or them?"

Cliffjumper took a long moment to stare at those present - Prowl's limp body, the cowering form of Bumblebee, Longarm, standing tall with an intense fire about him.  It was Blurr, however, whom he wound up fixated on, as if he were the sole determinant in Cliffjumper's decision - which Blurr felt was odd, based on their recent unfavorable interactions.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, averting his gaze.  "I tried."  And with those cryptic words said, he was scurrying off after Sentinel, leaving Longarm's supporters alone to deal with the aftermath of the encounter.

"What was that?"  Bumblebee squeaked, once Sentinel was out of sight.

"Never mind what that was," came Longarm's reply.  "Blurr, help me get Prowl stabilized.  We haven't much time."

Blurr was quick to obey, but within seconds  of deploying his own meager stash of medical supplies, a soft ping blipped on his HUD, from a private frequency.  Longarm.  What could he possibly have to say that was so secretive?

"Sir?"

"Did he hurt you?"  Even through mere text, the intensity of Longarm's words shone through.  Blurr chanced a look from his work to Longarm's face, which remained passive, focused entirely on his patient.

"No sir," Blurr answered at last, passing a heat torch at Longarm's vocalised request.

"Good." For a moment, nothing was said, as Longarm devoted his full attention to stopping the energon that gushed freely from Prowl's chest; Blurr assisted wherever he could.  But soon enough, the Prime was diverting some of his energies back to their own private conversation. "You'll tell me if he does?"

Blurr didn't answer.  He could sense where this conversation was heading, and it filled him with a sense of unease.  Sentinel was still the highest Autobot authority on the island.  On the other hand, Blurr knew now with certainty, that Sentinel's appointment to Prime must have been some kind of fluke, or the pressure he'd been under as of late had driven him mad.  Either way, he was not a leader Blurr cared to follower any longer, and he was done with being victimized by a mech he was supposed to respect.  Whatever doubts he'd entertained in regards to Longarm had vanished the moment Sentinel Prime struck at him with his blade.  Longarm may have acted questionably in the past, but it was clear nowjust how much he cared about the mechs that served under him. 

"What  will you do Sir, if he does?"  Blurr asked, fearing the answer, and his own inevitable reaction to it.

Longarm looked up from the liquid metal bubbling over the hole in Prowl's chest to stare Blurr straight in the optic, and with a smile, eerie in just how normal it was, whispered, "I will make him suffer."

A sinister sensation overcame Blurr.  Had he any willpower to resist Longarm Prime, he might have thought twice about the deeper implications behind the threats - Pit, he might have even cared.  But Longarm was safety, and some vengeful part of him recalled with loathing every slight he'd ever suffered at Sentinel's hand.  Disloyal as it was, the idea of Sentinel's suffering was strangely appealing.  From now on, as far as matters of loyalty went, there was only one mech he trusted with his life and spark.

"I will sir."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We interrupt your tension to give you some shipping!


	20. Shifting Allegiance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Optimus thought he knew who he could trust to have his back. He was wrong.

Optimus could tell that something was wrong from the moment Sentinel Prime arrived back at camp in such a furious huff that steam wafted from his overheated plating.  At his side, Cliffjumper scurried to keep up, while most unusually, the Jet Twins trudged along several paces behind.  Jetstorm in particular, came off as abnormally timid, stiff and wary, as his brother whispered words of comfort in his audial.  Optimus didn't like it at all.

"Sentinel?  What happened?"

Sentinel whirled on Optimus once at the mention of his name, gliding over with furious steps, and leaning in close enough that Optimus could detect the scent of mech fluids on him.  That didn't bode well.

"Don't trust Longarm," he growled.

Fear flashed through Optimus's processor.  What had Longarm done?  Had he killed someone?  Had he killed Ratchet?  "What's he done?"

"He's a traitor, and he'll tear our team apart!" He shot a meaningful glance at Jetstorm, who cringed in response, as if expecting to receive a blow.

"He has a golden tongue, tells you what you want to hear.  Don't trust him.  If anyone's a Decepticon here, it's him."

"Those are awfully bold accusations.  What has he done?"

Sentinel's face pinched up, sour at being second-guessed.  "I see he's got _you_ fooled too.  Well fine!  Have fun when the Necrobot comes callin'!"  And at that, he whipped around, heading off towards the ship.  Cliffjumper stayed at his side, but this time, the jets didn't follow.

"Jetfire, Jetstorm.  What happened out there?" Optimus tried, voice calm as could be, to not upset the strangely skittish twins.

"I," Jetstorm began, clawing at his face with trembling hands.  "I am a fool!  I am a traitor!"

"No brother!" Jetfire protested, but he might as well have been mute.

"I am worse than traitor.  I am being Decepticon!  My blood is Decepticon!"

The twins' origin wasn't much of a secret in certain circles.  Optimus himself had been disgusted to hear that wounded Autobots had been volunteered to be reprogrammed with the code of a Decepticon prisoner, but anyone who had met the twins would be hard-pressed to find a treacherous strut in their chassis.  To hear Jetstorm so upset over his heritage at this point . . . Something was very wrong here.

"Jetfire, what happened?" Optimus barked, much as Sentinel would have.  It seemed to do the trick, as Jetfire leapt to attention.

"We are hunting for Prowl, as we always are doing.  Today, we find him, but he was being in conversation with Bumblebee.  Sentinel Prime is ordering us to executing them both for being traitors.  Then Longarm Prime and others show up, and remove Sentinel Prime from command.  My brother was to be siding with Longarm Prime, when he is supposed to be siding with Sentinel Prime.  Now Sentinel Prime is being angry with my brother and me both.  He is to be calling us - um - Decepticon scum."  Jetstorm let out a howling sob, at his brother's words.

A dark rage had overtaken Optimus as Jetfire spoke.  What had Sentinel been thinking?!  His actions against Prowl and Bumblebee were unforgivable as it was, but against his _own_ mechs?!  To what new lows would he stoop next?!

"Jetstorm, listen to me," Optimus tried, hoping a gentle tone would calm the distraught jet.  When he kept right on sobbing, Optimus opted for a direct order instead, which had worked so well on Jetfire before.  Jetstorm more-or-less snapped to attention in response, but his posture was hunched, and his expression pained.

"You are allowed to side with whomever you so choose to.  It makes you no more or less an Autobot as you are when you follow Sentinel's orders.  If he does something that you think is immoral, you can always choose not to obey."

Jetstorm shook his head wildly.  "Optimus Prime does not understand!  He is only a ship's captain.  Sentinel Prime _is_ the Autobot cause!  If my brother and I betray him, we are to betraying all Autobots!"

"Jetstorm -"

"Sentinel Prime is saying you would try to trick me!  I am sorry, Optimus Prime!  I am not wanting to be a traitor!"  In a most uncharacteristic action, Jetstorm turned tail and fled into the ship, with Jetfire following closely behind.

Optimus had never paid the twins much mind before - they always seemed so giddy, if not a bit naive, particularly where Sentinel was concerned.  Their blind loyalty in the face of madness, however, would ensure that Sentinel maintained some degree of power no mature how irrationally he behaved, and in his case, that power could only be put to terrible use.  His attempted execution of _Bumblebee_ was proof of that.

Worse yet, a rift had formed in their tiny, tattered party.  They stood, a team divided, and he feared that no amount of leadership could save them now.  It was just another one of the many things that Optimus had failed at.

He would have to speak with Sentinel Prime sooner or later, to set the matter straight, to _hopefully_ find a way to settle their differences, and to create some semblance of harmony amongst their divided team.  At the moment, 'later' seemed the better option.  Approaching Sentinel in his fury without backup would have been unwise, and he wanted to speak with Longarm about the issue first.  Longarm was insightful; if anyone had answers in this mess, it would be him.  Sentinel's words regarding the other Prime didn't even ping on his radar, dismissed as the ramblings of a madmech.

In the meantime, there was little else for him to do other than sit outside and wait, and so he did.

~~~

Cycles passed.  Eventually, Bulkhead came outside to join him, in an effort to escape what he described as a "heavy atmosphere."  He still didn't know.  Bulkhead was best friends with Bumblebee, and he still didn't know about what Sentinel had attempted to do!  How would Bulkhead react once he found out?.  Should _he_ be the one to tell him?

In the end, he didn't have to.  Bumblebee stumbled into camp moments later, lost and broken, barely upright, with mud on his pedes, and dried energon on his his chest plating.

"Little Buddy!" Bulkhead cried out, racing over to meet his friend.  At first sight of the massive figure charging for him, Bumblebee flinched away, as if fearing a blow, but then, realization set in, and he threw himself at Bulkhead, clinging to a massive arm with all his might.

"Little Buddy?  What happened?  Are you all right?"  Bumblebee shook his head with enough vigor that Optimus feared it would pop off.  He refused to speak, somehow clinging to Bulkhead all the tighter.

Longarm was the next to pop in, the hook of his crane visible over the lip of the crater.

"Ah Optimus, just the mech I wanted to see.  I could use some assistance; I don't think I'll be able to get him down on my own."

Optimus didn't know which 'him' Longarm was referring to, but he supposed it didn't matter.  Prowl, Blurr, or Jazz - a body was a body, and carrying bodies back to base had become his macabre specialty as of late.  He crawled out of the crater to meet with the mech.

Longarm sat in alt mode at the top, while on the ground at his side lay a makeshift stretcher, composed of branches and twine, which held the unconscious form of Prowl, lying flat on his back. Across his torso lay one haphazard weld, which appeared to have been converted from random spare parts, rather than anything designed for the purpose.  Trails of his own energon stained his armor in patches, painting much of his torso with the translucent pink.

On Longarm's back sat Blurr, optics unfocused and frame hunched, but he didn't appear to be visibly injured, and unlike Bumblebee, was able to meet Optimus's gaze with lucidity.  He clambered down to the ground quickly enough, anyway.  The moment he was off, Longarm transformed back to root mode.

"You take that end," he said without pause, indicating the far side of the stretcher.  Optimus did as he was told without question, and soon enough the two of them had managed to haul Prowl down to the bottom of the crater, Blurr trailing along carefully behind them.

A look of stricken horror overcame Bulkhead's faceplates the moment he laid optics on Prowl's broken body.  "Guys?  Please, what's going on?  'Bee won't say anything to me."

Blurr, the one unencumbered bot in their lot, took it upon himself to explain the story, while Optimus and Longarm took to the task of shifting Prowl into a stable position.  At first, Bulkhead watched with a blank stare as Blurr's cascading story flew right over his head, but as his processor caught up, and the words sunk in, his face grew dark with horror, with anger.

"He did what?!"  Bulkhead bellowed, rage alien on an otherwise docile mech. "Are you hearing this, Optimus?!  _This_ is what I've been following?!  Why haven't we arrested _him_ yet?!"

"It's not so simple," Optimus said, turning away from Prowl's inert body to face the accusative Bulkhead.

"Like the Pit it isn't!" he growled.  "Go on, tell me!"

"Because Sentinel Prime won't give up all of his control without a fight," Longarm supplied from Optimus's back.  "As it stands, with Blurr not operating at full capacity, and Jazz missing, Sentinel and the Jet Twins are more than enough to take on the rest of us, should it come to battle, and Cliffjumper certainly doesn't hurt their cause either."

"But we outnumber them," Bulkhead protested.

"Have you seen Jetfire and Jetstorm fight?  They may behave like Autobots, but their programming is Decepticon, through-and-through.  You might as well be fighting Air-Commander Starscream."

Bulkhead backed down at the thought.  He, like many Autobots had never so much as looked at a real Decepticon before, and while he didn't know about Longarm and Blurr, Optimus, at least, had never legitimately fought one.  It was telling, however, that even in simulation, he had been lauded for just how long it took Megatron to inevitably kill him.  If the twins were as strong as Longarm said, then picking a fight with them would be suicidal.

"So what do we do then? "  Bulkhead muttered, defeated.

"We do what we can to keep him in line," Optimus responded, without much conviction.  He wanted to believe the best in everyone, even Sentinel, but he found himself worrying.  How long would it take for Sentinel to ignore reason altogether, and to start abusing the great untapped power he had at his command?  And was there any way to stop it?

~~~

It took a few cycles for Bumblebee to calm down enough to talk again, and until the next morning before he could talk about his run-in with Sentinel.  Both Sentinel _and_ Longarm seemed particularly interested in what Bumblebee had to say in regards to Prowl, and there was only so long Optimus could hold _two_ Primes at bay for _._  

Soon enough, the three Primes and Bumblebee, with Bulkhead hanging around for moral support, sat in what was once Ratchet's corner of the ship, now Sentinel's recharge slab.

Sentinel was the one to jump the gun on the interrogation.  "What are you and Prowl up to?"

The question made Bumblebee lean closer to Bulkhead, and the two remaining Primes glare.

"Oh come on.  Like you weren't thinking it!"

"Let's avoid the leading questions, shall we?"  Optimus groaned.  "Remember, Bumblebee is innocent until proven guilty.  _Not_ the other way around."

"Psh, fine."  Sentinel crossed his arms with a huff.  "Okay then, what were you doing with Prowl yesterday?"

"Talking!  Cliffjumper and I had a fight, so I was running back to base, when I quite literally ran into Prowl.  He didn't look like he was going anywhere, so I thought I'd interrogate him myself!"

The look on Sentinel's face slowly softened, and a slight glimmer of guilt shone in his optics.  With those scant words, he had come to realize his mistake - imagine what a little forethought could have done for him!  Determined to save face, he turned his head to the side and muttered.  "A likely story."

Optimus shook his head at the childish behavior, but there was no helping it.  Sentinel was Sentinel, and that wasn't going to change any time soon.  "What did he tell you?"

"That he didn't kill Ratchet."

A resounding 'hah!' sounded from the vicinity of Sentinel Prime.  Again, Optimus ignored it.

"Did he say who did?"

Bumblebee shook his head.  "No.  He said Ratchet was really sick when he found him - like, super overheated - his plating was melting shut or something, and uh, I guess he was trying to create some makeshift ventilation to his spark, so he had Prowl - "

"Oh yeah, of course.  Ratchet _asked_ to be stabbed!"

Optimus, at last fed up with the unruly behavior, whirled to face Sentinel.  "What Bumblebee says is in line with the report.  You said so yourself, Longarm!"  He nodded towards the other Prime, though his optics remained on Sentinel.  "He had melted plating and protoform, caused by an unknown source.  And it _is_ possible that the wound near his spark was created at his own request - it was clean enough that it couldn't have been inflicted on a struggling opponent.  This could be a valid story, don't you think?"  But when Optimus turned from Sentinel to Longarm, he didn't see the face of a mech in full agreement.  Longarm wore a deep frown, and though it was just perceptible, his optics bore a look of worry.  What did _Longarm_ have to be worried about?

"It's - it's hard to say for sure."  Ah yes, definitely worried - the stutter confirmed it.  "While what Bumblebee says _is_ in line with the report, I find the explanation to be a rather . . . convenient one, and feel, based on his conversation with Jazz, that it is more likely he suffered a violent death at the hands of another mech.  And it doesn't explain the fallen tree.  I find it highly unlikely that a tree so large could have been knocked over by the wind alone."

Optimus couldn't believe his audials.  Longarm Prime was agreeing with Sentinel!  In spite of the way he'd protested his methods!  In spite of his rational demeanor, and in spite of the way he'd given every indication of being on Optimus's side up until that very moment.  Had Optimus misread him?  Was _Optimus_ being the unreasonable one?  Or was there some other reason to this drastic change in behavior?  What had him so worried?

" _Finally_ , a mech who speaks sense," Sentinel responded with a smile, earlier accusations against Longarm evidently forgotten.  It was amazing what Sentinel would support when he was getting his way.

"But Prowl didn't even know about the tree until I told him!  It wasn't him!"  Bumblebee protested, but it fell on deaf audials.

"I think we've learned enough," said Sentinel, stepping away.  "Bumblebee has been absolved of his crimes for now, but Prowl will stand trial the moment he's able to.  We're done here."  With that said, the Prime strode from the room, letting the door slide shut behind him.

"Longarm, be reasonable," Optimus said, just shy of begging.  "Are you really going to take Sentinel's side after what he did to Bumblebee and Prowl?" he paused for effect, before adding, "After what he did to _Blurr_?"  It was a low blow, and indeed, Longarm did falter for a moment, but when he replied, his voice was resolute.

"I am not 'taking sides.'  This isn't a war.  All I want is for justice to be served, and to put this murder behind us."

"Longarm -" Optimus tried to protest, but he was promptly silenced.

"We are done here."  Longarm's words rang with a sense of finality as he followed Sentinel from the room; Optimus didn't bother trying to counter it.  He'd thought that he could count on Longarm Prime to have his back when Sentinel's madness at last drove him past the point of no return; he hadn't counted on the mech having his own opinions and motivations.  And if Longarm went his own way, he was apt to take Blurr with him, dividing their already inferior forces a third way.  Optimus, once again, was powerless to do a damn thing.

"They don't believe me," Bumblebee muttered.  "No one ever believes me."

"Little Buddy?" Bulkhead questioned, as the small bot hopped down from the recharge slab.

"Didn't let me finish.  Probably for the best anyway."  He hung his head, and began trudging towards the door.  "Knowing them, they'd just go after Jazz next."

Optimus was taken aback.  "Jazz?  What's Jazz got to do with this?"

Bumblebee didn't appear to hear the words, however.  "I wish he was here.  _He'd_ know how to make everything right."

"Bumblebee," Optimus pressed, more sternly.  Why would they go after Jazz?"

This time, Bumblebee did respond, looking up at Optimus with wide optics.  "Promise me you won't hurt him!"

Optimus was hesitant to make such promises with no context, but Bumblebee was in no state to argue morality.  With only half his spark in it, he said, "I promise."

The words seemed to satisfy Bumblebee.  He looked around, to make sure that Sentinel and Longarm were truly gone, before saying, "Jazz didn't get driven into hiding because he found out too much about Prowl.  He was _working_ with Prowl."

It took a moment for the information to sink in, but when it did, the revelation that the two were in it together wasn't entirely surprising.  In fact, it explained a lot of things  - why Jazz had been the first to defend Prowl, how he'd always managed to bring him back, even why he'd been able to find him after the crash in the first place.  Though despite how much sense the partnership made to him, he could see why Bumblebee didn't want Sentinel to know.  If he tried to execute Bumblebee for talking to Prowl, what would he do to Jazz?

"I see," he said at last, when he realized that Bumblebee was still looking at him.

"Is that a good 'I see,' or a bad 'I see?!'"  Bumblebee pressed, voice cracking in panic.

 Bulkhead approached the small bot, laying a comforting servo on his shoulder.   "It's okay, Little Buddy.  This is Optimus.  He won't tell."

"I promised that I wouldn't hurt Jazz," Optimus added.  "I told you that."  He still didn't know if it was true.  He wanted to trust Prowl, and by extension that meant he wanted to trust Jazz too.  But what if Sentinel and Longarm were right?  What if Prowl (and Jazz) _had_ been behind Ratchet's death?  How could he keep such a promise in those circumstances?  Bumblebee didn't need to know such things, however.

"Right," Bumblebee's voice came out more calmly this time.  "Right. Y-yeah.  Right."  He shook his head.  "I'm sorry.  Of course I can trust you!  You're the Prime who actually cares!  Yeah . . ."  he continued his nonsensical mumbling as he stumbled for the door, with Bulkhead fussing after him like a mother turbofox, and at last leaving Optimus alone.

Bumblebee's compliment was a source of pride for Optimus, but also guilt.  He'd made a promise to the kid that he'd _known_ he might not be able to keep.  If _he_ was the caring one, then that spoke great measures about their group.  What did it matter though?  Bumblebee had clearly been affected by his altercation with Sentinel; it made Optimus see red.  Not even a decacycle ago, Bumblebee was stubborn and childish, refusing to take their situation seriously, laughing and playing games, and being a frustrating yet necessary ray of light in an otherwise dreary setting.  To see him fallen so far, felt inherently wrong, as if innocence itself had been murdered along with Ratchet. 

What he needed was Jazz.  The smooth-talking, ever-personable bot would do wonders to cheer up Bumblebee, which was good on its own, but with any luck, his Elite Guard training would provide Optimus with a powerful ally, should one prove vital.  Sentinel had the Jet Twins, and Longarm had Blurr.  At the moment, Optimus was the only one whose ostensible follower-count was comprised entirely of non-combatant civilians.  A little military back up wouldn't hurt.

He had doubts as to the effectiveness of comming the elusive bot, but what was the alternative?  Jazz was a Cyberninjia -a master of his craft, trained by Yoketron himself, and unlike Prowl, he had left in top condition.  Optimus could scour the woods for vorns and still be no closer to finding him.  It was the only way that made sense.

With a deep vent to gather his thoughts, he put in the call.  He didn't get through, but he was allowed to leave a message.  _Why not?_ he thought.

_"Jazz, this is Optimus.  Sentinel's lost his mind - tried to execute three of our own teammates. Moreover, information has come to light about the relationship between you and Prowl.  Bumblebee's worried, and as for me - well - I could really use you here right about now, for everyone's sake."_ He ended the message there, unsure of what else he could say.  Should he highlight the rift in their camp, his fears of an uprising on Sentinel's part, his worries over Longarm's allegiances?  Would Jazz even care?

Evidently, he did, for not even a klik later, Optimus received a ping on his own comm.

_"Yo, it's Jazz.  I got your message.  Meet me at the murder site in two cycles."_

~~~

Two cycles later found Optimus near the base of that mighty, fallen tree.  Sentinel's rule about traveling in groups was still in effect, but as a Prime, he was awarded a little more wiggle room.  Was he a fool to come out here alone?  Most likely.  But this was not an experience he wanted to drag the others into.  Then again, Jazz was still nowhere to be seen.  Was he running late?  Had he been stood up?  Or was Optimus slated to become the next victim in their murder mystery?

It wasn't doing him any good to dwell on it.  Instead, he took in his surroundings.  This was the first he'd been back here since Ratchet's passing.  There was no more energon staining the ground, no sign that Ratchet had been there at all, save for the presence of the tree itself.  It felt disrespectful, somehow, as if nature should have stopped its progression to honor Ratchet's passing.  _What a foolish thought_.

"Ah, there you are!"  Jazz greeted.  Optimus, lost in his thoughts as he'd been, hadn't felt his presence - still didn't in fact, so he was more than a little surprised at the sudden salutation.

"Gah!  Jazz!  It's you!"  It wasn't one of his smoother moments.

"Yeah boss, it's me."  Jazz offered a lazy salute.  "And I understand you was wantin' to see me?"

"Yes," Optimus said, finally regaining some of his composure.  "Camp's been a disaster these past few solar cycles."

"Who'd Sentinel try to axe?" Jazz jumped right to the point, a twinge of worry on his carefully-blank face.

"Prowl, Blurr, and Bumblebee."

Jazz took a half-step back, gaping.  "Bumblebee?!  What, did he catch him chatting up Prowl, or something?"

"As a matter of fact . . . "

Jazz slapped a hand to his fore-helm, shaking his head.  "Yeesh.  And Blurr?  What did _he_ do?"

"Tried to stop Sentinel, evidently."  Optimus crossed his arms, likewise shaking his head.  He and Jazz, two bots so different in outlook and personality, were at least united here by their mutual disgust in Sentinel's actions.

"It's awful just how plausible that is," Jazz said at last, breaking the silence that had fallen over them.  "Not sure what you want me to do about it though."

"You've always had a way with bots, Sentinel Prime in particular," Optimus admitted.  "My hope was, if you couldn't bring him around, maybe you could get Jetfire or Jetstorm.  Or Cliffjumper."  Optimus's words were met with a noncommittal shrug.

"I don't know about that.  Talking down Sentinel is treadin' a fine line.  Do it too often, and he starts suspectin' _you_ of treason.  'Sides, if they already put together the connection between Prowl and me, then my word's good as dirt."

Optimus's face fell.  Relying on Jazz to reign in Sentinel had been a long shot at best, but it would have made life much easier for everyone involved.

"But I might have something you could use."

Opitmus perked up at that.  "Is that so?"

"Yep," Jazz grinned, something secretive in his expression.  "Deploy your axe for me." 

It took a moment for the words to sink in, the request was so far left field.  "Sorry, my what?"

"Your axe.  Deploy it."

It had been awhile since he'd used the thing; it hadn't even crossed his mind to check on his weapons before leaving base; they were always in his subspace, which only _he_ had access to.  Why would it matter?  In retrospect, however, his carelessness had probably been a little foolish, especially as, when he tried to release the thing, it wasn't there to be released.  His optics widened in surprise.

"It's gone!"

To his further astonishment, Jazz didn't seem all that surprised.  "Well, I guess that counts _you_ out."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Do you remember when you last had it?"  Jazz barraged on, ignoring Optimus's confusion.

He thought back.  He hadn't used it at any point during the investigation, nor on the hunt for Sentinel Prime on that fateful stormy night.  When _had_ he last seen the thing?

"When Prowl attacked Bumblebee," he answered at last.

Jazz nodded.  "Thought so.  So that means it's on the island, at least.  And I'm thinkin' - that tree," he nodded towards the mighty fallen brute, that had pinned Ratchet beneath its weight days prior.  "No way it fell down by the wind.  _Somebody_ did that.  And I think that somebody mighta used your axe."

The revelation was terrifying to Optimus.  He never took his axe out of subspace when it wasn't in use.  How had someone managed to steal it, and moreover, put it to such heinous purpose?  Or worse yet, what if _he_ had been the culprit, and had somehow blocked it from his memory?  Jazz's next question indicated that he had come to the same conclusions.

"'Kay Optimus.  So what were you doing the night of the murder?"

Optimus responded right away.  "Bulkhead and I left the base to find Sentinel Prime, and then we came back a few cycles later . . ." he trailed off.  Was that it?

"A little more detail would be nice," Jazz laughed. 

So Optimus thought.  He thought long and he thought hard, trying to come up with anything else - any foliage he'd found suspicious, or some words he'd shared with Bulkhead.  But nothing would come to him.

"I - that's all I've got," he said, fully aware of how weak his answer sounded.

Jazz tapped his chin in thought.  "Okay, how 'bout the last thing you remember?  After you left camp - how far can you describe?"

Opitmus gave it another moment's thought.  "Bulkhead and I left the base at the same time as you and Bumblebee.  The two of you went east while we ventured west.  Bulkhead tripped over a log about three kliks in and I had to help him up . . . " he shook his head.  "That's it."

"And the next thing you recall?"

This one was easier.  "Walking back into base to escape the storm.  I think the sun was just starting to rise."  He paused.  He didn't remember when the storm had begun, or how strong it had been, but he remembered how happy he'd felt to enter the warm, dry base after being cold and wet for so long.  That was unsettling.  Why couldn't he remember?

"Pretty big gap in your memory there," Jazz commented, though he sounded unsurprised.

"You don't think that _I_ was the one to cut down the tree?  That _I_ killed . . ." he couldn't say it; it was too much to even think about.  Fugue state or not, Optimus _never_ would have killed his best friend.

"Can't say for sure," Jazz shrugged.  "But I'm forming a guess."

"And what's your guess?" Optimus raised in inquisitive optic ridge.

Jazz laughed, despite the grim topic.  "I don't know yet, man."

Optimus didn't like the answer, but something told him that Jazz was done talking about _that_ particular topic.  He'd have to find another one.

"Okay, I've got another question for you, Jazz."

"Shoot."

"What are you doing out here anyway?  Some of the guys back at camp thought you were on the run from Prowl, but I guess Prowl said that the two of you were actually working together."

Jazz laughed again, though it sounded a bit forced this time.  "Yeah.  Guess he finally let that one slip."  He shrugged.  "I'll bite then.

"I wasn't out here to hide - Prowls' a decent fighter, but he still ain't finish his training.  Even if he did get it in his fool head to fight me, he would lose - I don't care how sneaky he think he's bein.'"  


"So why then?"

"Initially, I came out here to _find_ him.  There was some things I was wantin' to clear up, and I knew what Sentinel would do if he got there first."

"You do know how to disappear right when it would be most suspicious, don't you?" Optimus mused, only half-joking.

"Suspicious" Jazz laughed, genuinely now.  "Well, I wouldn't know about that.  What they suspectin' _me_ for?"

Optimus shook his head.  "It doesn't matter anymore.  We found Prowl, so you can come back to camp now."

"That's the thing though," Jazz said.  "I started out looking for Prowl, but I think I may have stumbled across something a lot more interesting."  He looked up, towards the tree tops, and Optimus followed his gaze.  As far as he could tell, there wasn't anything of note to be seen.  Rather, the only thing in that direction to catch his optic was a spider web, large enough to capture even a Cybertronian.  Optimus froze, processor a sudden barrage of memories he'd tried so hard to forget.

"You know what that is?" Jazz asked, though his tone implied that he expected a 'yes.'

"It's a spider web."

Jazz rolled his optics behind his visor.  "Guess I walked into that one.  But do you know what it means?"

Optimus's tanks clenched in response, visions of Archa Seven creeping into his mind - of the mission that had permanently wedged a rift between him and Sentinel, had gotten him kicked out of the academy to instead pilot a cruise ship, of the loss of another of his closest friends, vorns before he'd even met Ratchet.  But while Optimus no doubt had a distaste for spiders, there was no reason to think the web significant.  Many planets had spiders.

"Presumably that the island needs to invest in a better pest control."

It hadn't been the answer Jazz had expected, but honestly, Optimus didn't know what the bot was looking for here.  After a long pause, he chuckled, raising his hands in defeat.

"Fair enough. I knew it was a long shot anyway."

"Why, what is it?" Optimus asked, growing impatient.

"What it is, is a sign that we ain't alone on this island."

A slew of emotions ran through Optimus's mind - confusion, surprise, relief - how had Jazz pulled that conclusion?  What had he found in his time away from camp?  If there were others on the island, then did that mean that _no one_ in their party had been responsible for Ratchet's death?  Before he had a chance to react to the bombshell Jazz had dropped, however, his attention was pulled to the beeping of his commlink.

"Optimus Prime," he answered.

The voice that responded was young and high, and cracking beneath the strain of panic.  "Optimus!  It's Bumblebee!  You gotta get back here now!"

"Bumblebee?  what's- " but the young bot didn't bother waiting for him to finish.

"Prowl woke up.  Sentinel's putting him on trial right now!  Hurry!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh! A chapter that I DIDN'T post at three in the morning?! What IS this?!?!


	21. Judge, Jury, and Prosecution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl stands trial for his alleged crimes, his fate in the hands of Sentinel and Longarm.

In the half cycle Optimus had been away from camp doing Primus knew what, the remaining two Primes had convened, argued, and inevitably decided to hold the trial a few kliks later, with no input from the rest of the team.  Holding the trial while the only real opposition was gone struck Cliffjumper as low,  but he also acknowledged that nothing would get done otherwise.  It was a necessary evil - liberty for security, and Cliffjumper at least, could tolerate a little evil for the greater good.  Of course, not everyone agreed.

"You can't do this!"  Bulkhead bellowed.  "This isn't justice!  This is innocent bots getting caught in your grudge match with Optimus Prime!"

But he was the only one to make his reservations known.  Bumblebee was too afraid to cross Sentinel, and Blurr . . . Cliffjumper didn't know  _what_ Blurr was thinking, other than exactly what Longarm told him to.

When the time came for the trial, the nine bots sat in a circle around the front of the ship, with Sentinel at its head, standing tall by the door.  Due to the lack of an impartial judge and jury, the Prime's had appointed themselves to hear the evidence and vote on a verdict.  Both had made their choice already - this mockery of justice existed as a formality due to mere technicality.  Longarm had assured them that Prowl would receive fair trial, and couldn't renege for fear of losing face - Cliffjumper bet that the hypocrite was regretting his words now!

At Sentinel's behest, Cliffjumper had taken up his usual position of taking notes.  Prowl had been the first to speak, but he was barely capable of standing on his own two feet, let alone standing trial.  He had been barely responsive as Sentinel and Longarm both played prosecutioner, attacking him from two sides.   Bumblebee was the first witness to volunteer to speak on Prowl's behalf, but he had nothing new to add to the conversation, and was swiftly sent back to stand at Bulkhead's side.

Now it was Longarm's turn to testify.

Cliffjumper listened with disgust as Longarm recounted the events of the night of Ratchet's death, and of the morning of the autopsy.  His story remained surprisingly neutral, a fact which seemed to cause him pain, given the tense set of his shoulders.

Up until that private interrogation with Bumblebee yesterday, Longarm had presented himself as a true force of neutrality, visibly standing up to the tyranny Sentinel enforced, while the two-faced fragger practiced his own brand of evil behind the scenes.  Still, after yesterday, it was hard to imagine what Bumblebee could have said to make him so adamant in favor of Prowl's guilt.  He had some kind of personal stake in this, Cliffjumper was sure, but he didn't dare bring his fears to attention - not yet.

He hadn't been Longarm's secretary for nearly two vorns without picking up a few things that his boss would rather others didn't know.  The mech may have enjoyed the docile, dutiful,  _dull_  act of the perfect Prime he put on, but Longarm was dangerous and Longarm was vindictive.  Cliffjumper had no desire to wind up on that mech's bad side - not yet, at least.

Longarm's testimony ended with no new evidence revealed.  Once he'd taken his place beside Sentinel, Blurr was called to the stand.  He zipped into the middle of the circle with his usual speed, a refreshing sight, even Cliffjumper had to admit.  Once there, he stood at attention, a confident smile on his face plates, which stood in stark contrast to the nervous ticks Cliffjumper had seen him displaying while all eyes were  _not_  on him.   _Interesting._

"So," Sentinel said with a dark sneer.  "Why don't  _you_  tell me about the night of Ratchet's death.  We haven't heard your version yet."

"Why are we bothering with this?" Longarm protested.  "It's not going to reveal anything that  _my_ testimony didn't."

It was a good question.  Cliffjumper couldn't imagine that Blurr had any information that hadn't already been provided by himself and Longarm.  Moreover, it was hard to determine why  Longarm was getting flustered over it.  Did Sentinel suspect  _him_  as well?  And was he right to?  Cliffjumper considered it.

He had enough evidence to damn Longarm twice over, he was sure.  He'd found the cave, the energon stockpile, the devices that littered the floor.  He knew Longarm's habits, knew how he behaved when he was nervous, knew that he had  _something_  to hide, though what that could have been remained a mystery.  But he maintained his silence.  If Prowl's case was any indication, the group could not be trusted to dole out punishment in a timely fashion.  By the time they got their act together, Cliffjumper would already be dead at his former boss's servos.  Besides, as much as he hated Longarm, he was less eager for Blurr to fall with him, as he surely would.  He may have been insufferable as of late, and difficult to get along with at the best of times, but he was a good mech, and Cliffjumper wouldn't deny some degree of affection for the bot who'd saved his life.  His only crime was naivety, nothing more.

"What's the matter Longarm?   Afraid of what your boyfriend will say?"  Sentinel continued, voice dripping with smug scorn.

 Longarm backed down, though his attitude remained.  "No.  I merely didn't want to waste everyone's time."  Too late for that.  "But if you so insist, then we'll listen to Blurr's testimony."

Blurr, who's confident persona had faltered slightly through the altercation looked just as pleased as Longarm at the prospect of talking. 

"Go on then, agent," Sentinel pushed. 

Blurr's composure was regained in a nano-klik.  "Well, it's not really very different than Longarm's story.  Ratchet went to examine Longarm, and then he left to go look for Prowl like the rest of you.  I didn't pay too much attention to the situation because I was busy talking to Cliffjumper at the time."  If by talking, he meant hanging on Longarm's every move while Cliffjumper tried, failed, then gave up on attempting conversation, then it wasn't a lie.

"And what was Ratchet like when he left?  Did he look scared?"

"No sir, I just said.  Were you not listening?  I wasn't paying attention to Ratchet at the time, but as far as I could tell, he didn't seem to be behaving any differently."

Sentinel sneered.  "Of course you weren't.  Very well then.  Do you have any questions for him, Longarm?"

He must have, for Blurr kept right on talking.  But Cliffjumper had stopped paying attention, distracted by the look on Blurr's face.  Blurr was a spy, and a good one at that.  He knew how to lie.  To strangers.  When it came to lying to a bot he'd worked with for the better part of the last two vorns, however, he was transparent as glass. 

He was lying now.  He was talking too slowly, his optics were too bright, his movements too still.  He was concentrating very hard on something, and that something was either a lie, or a careful obfuscation of the truth.  Cliffjumper was certain that Blurr had been paying more attention to Ratchet than he'd let on - the bot was sharp and observant, but somehow, his answer had been as dim as Cliffjumper's.

He let his attention drift back to the trial.  Blurr was talking about yesterday, still wearing that same too-confident face.  He hadn't said a word about the energon stockpile he and Longarm had, not that Cliffjumper expected him to.

"Longarm and I ran into Cliffjumper in the middle of the woods by himself.  We quickly devolved into a slight altercation about energon and resources - supplies are hard to come by in such times and we're all angry about it.  He and Bumblebee had been unable to find anything, prior to their parting and he seemed to feel the two of us were shirking our duties, instead of providing the group with a supply of energon.  Anyway, that was when we heard Bumblebee's screams, and I took off running . . ."

It was an impressive testimony, filled with semi-accurate assumptions and half-hearted attempts at flirting with the truth.  It took bearings to say such things; he must have been very sure that Cliffjumper wouldn't contest his testimony.  He was right of course, as much as it pained Cliffjumper to admit. 

"That's when Sentinel Prime attacked me in some misguided effort to protect his own integrity.  Naturally, his scheme was doomed to fail, as he's not a very fast bot.  I could dodge his assaults with only one leg.  Jetstorm, however, is a bit faster, and after my brief and somewhat unwise foray back into moving at hyper speeds, I was in no shape to dodge  _his_  attacks, as Sentinel ordered him to execute me when he himself failed."

"What does this have to do with Prowl?" Sentinel snarled, interrupting the unflattering story.  "My actions don't prove him guilty or not, and that's all that matters.  I move to dismiss this witness."

"What's the matter, Sentinel?  Are you afraid that he will incriminate  _you_?"  Longarm retorted with a vindictive gleam in his optics.

Sentinel took a step back, face a terrifying portrait of rage and fear and indignation, all splattered onto one canvas.  "You're not implying that  _I_  had anything to do with Ratchet's death?!"

Longarm chuckled maliciously.  "What a charming notion - a petty leader, kills the one bot capable of rallying the others against him in a moment of fear.  Maybe we should put  _you_ on trial next?"

Sentinel's face grew dark.  "Like it's no less suspicious that he died shortly after examining you.  Tell me, what did he find?"

Whereas Sentinel's face had settled on a predatory rage, Longarm, with optics blown wide and a slight tremble to his jaw, had clearly settled on fear.  Had someone hit the nail on the head?

"Well, let's focus on Prowl right now anyway," Longarm coughed, forcing a hasty return to composure.  "You're dismissed Blurr."

Blurr couldn't get away fast enough, popping back into formation beside Cliffjumper before the words had finished leaving Longarm's mouth.  He was fidgeting again, able to let nerves show now that attention was no longer on him.  He quite deliberately refused to make eye contact with Cliffjumper, focusing on Longarm with an awkward intensity.  Cliffjumper was willing to bet that the bot didn't want to face him after the stunt he'd just pulled, not that Cliffjumper blamed him.  Sooner or later, there was sure to be a confrontation between the two of them, but it would have to wait.  For now, it was Sentinel's turn to testify.

"Sentinel Prime," Longarm began, stepping forward with arms folded behind his back.  "What were you doing the night of the murder?"

Sentinel stood straight and tall, a forced smile spanning the width of his massive jaw.  "Optimus and I had gotten into an argument that morning.  Optimus insisted on protecting the rights of criminals, and fed up with his whining at last, I took off into the woods."

Even when half of the bots present had witnessed the described events with their own optics, Sentinel still refused to describe them without putting himself in a favorable light.  It didn't bode well for his credibility, but when he made up one half of the jury, it hardly mattered whether the others believed him.

"Jetfire, Jetstorm and I scoured the woods for cycles hoping to hunt down the traitor on our own.  Eventually, the storm kicked in.  We put on a brave show, but visibility was hampered and communications were out; we were forced by the elements to return to base."  This story seemed equally obfuscated to Cliffjuper, if only because he knew for a fact that Sentinel had gone into the woods to vent.

However, it wasn't the only part of the story that seemed implausible.   Sentinel's had been the first group to return, just as the storm was picking up, which stood in contrast to his tale of valor.  Jazz and Bumblebee had arrived at the height of the storm, and Optimus and Bulkhead had come in last, close to dawn, once the storm had all but ceased.  Again, Cliffjumper didn't contest it, though not from fear this time.  Sentinel Prime was the leader he had put his stake in, combining the earnesty of Optimus Prime with the results of Longarm Prime.  It wasn't an ideal situation, but he would trust Sentinel, for better or worse.  What choice did he have?

"I was more shocked than any to find that Ratchet had been killed.  But I guess you can't trust a traitor."

  He cast a victorious smile at Prowl, who watched in tranquil manner.  Cliffjumper was willing to bet that the ninja-bot was barely suppressing his rage, though severe energon loss probably helped with that.

"Yes, yes," Longarm agreed, rather insincerely.  "And were you able to find any new evidence in the following days?"

"Unfortunately no," Sentinel made a great show of shaking his head, so that everyone could see his regret.  "The traitor managed to elude us up until yesterday evening, but eventually we were able to find him."

"And could you tell me about  _that_  occurrence?"  As he uttered the words, Cliffjumper felt like for the first time all morning, he was seeing the true Longarm Prime, tranquil fury and calculated promises of danger.  Despicable, two-faced thing though he was, Cliffjumper had no doubt he cared for Blurr, in his own twisted way.  As much as he'd been burying his head in the sand in regards to Prowl, even  _he_  couldn't pretend that Sentinel hadn't crossed a line with Blurr.

Sentinel, for his part, looked like a cornered beast.  Perhaps he was close enough to feel the threat in Longarm's usually tightly-controlled EM field.  Cliffjumper didn't envy his position.  "Well," he laughed, a nervous squawk, "I don't think we really need to hear the story for a third time.  I've already apologized for attacking Blurr and the others," the look on Blurr's face implied that this was another lie, at least in so far as his victims were concerned.  "What more do you want?"

To Cliffjumper's surprise, Longarm didn't press the issue.  "Very well.  I have one more question for you.  What have you been doing on Optimus's computer?"

If Sentinel had looked like a cornered beast before, then that beast had finally been pushed to its breaking point.  The Prime leaned forward, face a mess of mania, and posture poised to strike, hopefully only in a metaphorical sense.

"I don't see how that's any of your business!" 

Longarm's grin turned predatory.  "Afraid, Sentinel?  Whatever for?  Are you hiding something?"   _That_  got Cliffjumper's attention.  Of course he had wondered what Sentinel was always getting up to on the solitary computer.  It didn't have nearly enough power to contact the outside world, and the Prime stubbornly refused to allow anybody else to so much as touch the thing.  He had to hand it to Longarm - the guy knew how to pick out his target's weak point.

"I'm sorry, who was the one that wanted to focus on Prowl?"

The trial had devolved into a farce, if it hadn't already been one from its onset.  Cliffjumper subspaced his pen.  At the start, it had surely seemed like Prowl would be voted guilty by two highly-partial judges with no regard for any presented evidence.  Now, however, the whole thing had turned into an excuse for two bots overflowing with pent-up aggression to take pot shots at one another.  The only question left was whether they would still vote Prowl guilty to cover their own afts.  And with so much discontent brewing within the ranks, Cliffjumper found himself wondering if he'd made the right choice in jumping on the Sentinel train.  Was he truly the least of three evils?

"No further questions," Longarm said with a self-satisfied smirk.

"Alright then.  Any other testimonies?"  Nobody moved to respond.  All those who had testified thus far had been brushed aside, their words turned to garbage.  By now, everybot seemed to just want the nightmare to end.  Prowl had shuttered his optics, Blurr had a small frown on his lips as he watched Longarm, which gave Cliffjumper no small degree of satisfaction. Was there trouble brewing in paradise?  Bumblebee meanwhile, who had been so eager to help Prowl after last night's encounter, was now glancing back-and-forth at the woods every few seconds, as though he wanted nothing more than to escape.

"No?  Good, then Longarm Prime and I shall vote on our decision."

Bumblebee - cured from his Sentinel-induced trauma by sheer desperation, stepped forward to protest .  "What if you vote differently?  There's only two of you.  Shouldn't we all have a say?"

Sentinel laughed, a deceptively merry sound.  "Don't you worry your pretty little helm about things like that.  Longarm Prime and I have already come to an agreement."

He never had a chance to name that agreement.  A voice, warm and cocky, called out from the peak of the crater.  "Surely you can hold off on deciding for one more testimony."  The circle turned as one bot to face Optimus Prime, champion of heroic entrances. 

"Make that two testimonies," Jazz added, popping out from behind the Prime.

"Optimus." Sentinel narrowed his optics in a begrudged greeting.  "I'm afraid you're too late.  We've already decided."

"Oh Please," Optimus scoffed, striding down to meet the others.  "We're in no hurry here.  We're talking about a mech's life; you can wait a few kliks to get the rest of the story."

"I second Optimus's right to testify," Jazz grinned.

"Thirded!" Blurr bit out before Jazz had even finished speaking.

Sentinel's optics promised murder.  Longarm's on the other hand, were a complex amalgamation of fear, calculation, and curiosity.  Both Primes inevitably stood aside to let Optimus speak.

"Go on then," Sentinel spat.  "What do you have to say?"

"I'd like to talk about the night of the murder."  Optimus wore a frown that was all business, his stance tall and respectful, as if he alone were paying the trial the dignity it should have demanded.  Had he not known better, Cliffjumper would have followed that bot from demeanor alone.  He'd be lying if he said he wasn't a little tempted regardless.  If only he wasn't such a soft-spark.

"Well nothing's stopping you."  Sentinel folded his arms like a petulant child.  He may have been the marginally better leader, but he wasn't making a good case for himself right now.  Cliffjumper wondered if they weren't best off shunning the Primes altogether?

"Not completely true.  The fact of the matter is, I don't remember most of the night."

A sense of terrified understanding reached Sentinel's optics, but when he spoke, none of it was present in his flippant words.

"It wasn't  _that_ long ago."

Optimus shook his head.  "What I  _mean_  is, I remember everything up until I left base, a little bit after, but everything between then and when I returned that morning is one big blank.

Sentinel's head tilted with a contemplative frown.  "So what?  You're saying  _you_  did it, but don't remember?"

"That's not what I'm saying at all, but it  _is_  worth noting.  Moreover, at some point between Prowl's awakening and now, my axe went missing.  I figure it's likely that it happened during these holes in my memory."

Sentinel remained unconvinced.  "So you killed Prowl, chopped down a tree on top of him, dumped your weapon somewhere, then forgot about it?"

It was clear that Optimus was reaching the end of his patience, fists clench, jaw gritted.  It was Longarm, however, that spoke on his behalf.

"As tragic as that would be, I very much doubt that the tree was felled by an axe."

Sentinel and Optimus alike responded with confusion.

"What makes you so certain?"  Optimus asked.

"The base of the fallen tree was shattered.  An axe should have left a much cleaner cut.  But the tree wasn't what killed Ratchet, so why should it matter  _who_ cut it down?"

"It shouldn't," Optimus agreed.  "But the fact that I can't remember the night  _and_  that my weapon has been missing ever since  _is_ suspicious, don't you think?"

"Yeah, I guess so," Sentinel said, though agreeing with Optimus clearly pained him.  "There's a way to find out though, yeah?  You weren't alone that night."

As one again, everyone turned to Bulkhead, who had remained silent up until this point.  At the sudden attention, Bulkhead took a step back, wearing the face of a turbofox caught in headlights.  "Uh . . ."

"Bulkhead, I call on you to testify."  That said, Optimus stepped to the side, allowing Bulkhead to waddle nervously into the center of the circle.

"Not sure how I can help.  I don't know anything about Prowl _or_ Ratchet." The massive mech was hunched over, servos together, in an unconscious effort to be smaller.

"But you were there with me." Optimus offered the lug a reassuring smile, which seemed to give him a small bit of confidence.  Cliffjumper figured now was as good a time as any to start writing again.

_Missing axe.  No memories._

"Well," Bulkhead began, drawing out the word as he thought over his answer.  "We left the base and headed west.  I think I tripped over a log a few kliks into the woods.  It hurt a whole lot."

"Not surprising," Sentinel muttered, though his opinion was politely ignored.

"Optimus helped me up, and uh - well, I remember - uh . . ." He scratched his head with a deep frown.

"I guess it started raining at some point?  And uh, we got back to base close to sunrise . . . Wow.  That's all I got."  He sounded surprised, but Optimus gave him a reassuring nod.

"So whatever happened to me, likely happened to us both.  Do you still have your weapon?"

With a look of intense thought, Bulkhead transformed his arm into a wrecking ball.  "Looks like, but it would be a lot harder to steal my arm without me noticing."

A heavy sigh came from Sentinel's direction.  "What does it matter if you both have your memories or weapons or don't?  It doesn't mean that Prowl's not guilty.  He just as easily could have stolen your memories.

"Actually, I think I'd like to testify now, if y'all don't mind."  Jazz sauntered forward.

"Please!" Bulkhead was eager to swap places with the other mech.  Sentinel, however, was less so.

"Jazz, so help me Primus, you're in enough hot water as it is," he growled.  

"Well, it's gonna get hotter before we can chill out," was the smooth reply.

Sentinel cocked his head.  "What?"

"Prowl didn't kill Ratchet.  An' I got some pretty fair evidence backin' me up."

"I doubt that," Sentinel said, rolling his optics.  Optimus, however, continued to press.

"How so?"

"Remember that spider web I showed you?"

"I do."  Optimus nodded with a thoughtful frown.

"That thing ain't made by no natural spider."

Cliffjumper didn't know what in those words had caused Sentinel to stiffen, but it finally looked like the Prime was ready to pay attention.

"What are you talking about?"

Elaboration was not to be found, however.  His question was brushed off, as Jazz favored the continuation of his story.  "An' it was hardly the only one.  These webs is scattered all 'bout the island - technological, like something you'd see back on Cybertron, but they catchin' organic creatures instead."

Sentinel and Optimus turned to face one another, faces matching in their haunted expressions.  Maybe they were arachnophobic?

"We've explored the island top to bottom.  I think I would've remembered seeing a bunch of spider webs."  Sentinel growled, far more aggressively than was necessary.  Jazz shrugged his shoulders before the tyrant.

"There's still plenty to find on this island; these webs ain't the half of it.  And anyway, they tucked outta the way mostly.  Not gonna see 'em if you ain't lookin'.  'Sides," his grin flattened.  "Can you remember the night of Ratchet's death either?"

Sentinel was shaking now, whether from fear or rage, it was hard to say.  Jazz had figured it out, it was clear to see from the Prime's reaction.  And if Sentinel had holes in his memory, then it could account for the eager manner in which he had shifted blame to Prowl.  Sentinel and Longarm alike were using that poor mech to cover up their own suspicious activity, and Cliffjumper and the rest had bought it.  He clenched his fist around his pen, hard enough that it snapped.  Nobody else seemed to notice.

"I take that as a no.  And tell me, which way did you go when you left the base?"

"West," he said with shaking voice.

"Then I propose a scenario - both you and Optimus ran into something out there - something that can steal memories.  Maybe they native to the island, maybe they a visitor like us.  Might be alone, but I think they got some friends.  And if they figured out how to build all these electromagnetic webs, and delete memory files, then it seems likely they could do other things, like devise a virus that could kill a mech - Ratchet mighta found them when he went lookin' for Optimus - 'They're everywhere,' yeah?  They poison him and leave him for dead."  He was smiling again, which Cliffjumper found to be entirely inappropriate, but that was Jazz.

"Why would they kill Ratchet, but only steal the rest of our memories?"  Optimus pondered aloud.

Another shrug from Jazz.  "Who knows?  He's smaller than y'all,  _older_  than y'all - maybe they tried and he had a bad reaction?  Or was immune to the memory wipe?  Maybe they was testing the virus?  Maybe they panicked?  All I can say is it makes more sense than any of  _us_ doin' it."

Optimus nodded.  "Thank you Jazz.  I think that's all we needed to hear.  Shall we take our vote?"  He turned to Sentinel, who still was hot-faced and trembling beneath the weight of strong emotions.  When he spoke, his voice was small and choked, rather than that of the boisterous Sentinel everyone knew.

"By the power vested in me by Ultra Magnus, I hereby find the defendant, Prowl of Praxus, for the crime of murdering Ratchet of Iacon, not guilty."  He turned to Optimus with a faltering nod.

"Not guilty," Optimus declared, smiling.

With two verdicts in agreement, there was no need to hear Longarm's decision, but everyone looked to him for acknowledgement anyway.

Longarm had been silent for awhile, and was clearly displeased to have attention back on him - or maybe he was just generally displeased.  He looked rather like Bumblebee did when he couldn't get his way - flushed facial plating, tightly pursed lips, bright optics and tense shoulders.  Cliffjumper couldn't understand why for the life of him.  Sentinel had almost certainly been fighting for Prowl's guilt to draw attention from his own.  No one thought Longarm a murderer anymore, so why was he so angry?  Just what kind of grudge did he have against Prowl?

His reply was slow, uttered with the utmost reluctance, but even Longarm could see how suspicious it would be to continue to vie for Prowl's guilt at this point.  At long last, the words 'Not guilty," passed between his lips.

A cheer rang out from Bumblebee's direction, aided by happy confirmations from Bulkhead and Jazz.  Jetfire and Jetstorm too, looked like they wanted to participate in the celebration, though their optics were locked on Sentinel, as if not completely sure it was permitted.  Prowl himself sat in a stunned silence, either too tired or too shocked to know what to make of the information. 

Less inclined to celebrate, were Sentinel and Optimus, muttering amongst themselves in hushed voices.  It wasn't hard to imagine their conversation, however.   Optimus had likely made a suggestion that Sentinel disapproved of, as he was denying with all of his might, his optics caught in an ill-suiting hundred-yard stare.

As for Longarm, he'd wandered off to the side of the circle, where Blurr was quick to greet him.  The Prime's demeanor was hardly enthused, but he tried to put on a pretty face for Blurr.  He smiled, wrapped an arm around the lithe mech, stroked at the edges of his headlights with gentle fingers.  The sight made Cliffjumper's energon boil, even more so at the giddy smile that broke out on Blurr's face.

How could he just ignore Longarm's shady behavior like that?  Why had he lied in his testimony?  How much did he know about Longarm's real nature?  How deep had he gotten himself?  And was there still time left to save him?

"Cliffjumper, come with me.  We've got some business to take care of."

He leapt a the sudden presence of Sentinel Prime behind him, but was quick to calm himself, thoughts of Blurr and Longarm fleeing from his mind.  Prowl may have been determined innocent, and for some, it was a matter worth celebrating, but for those in command, Jazz's testimony had highlighted just how much work was left to do.  Pulling a new, intact pen from his subspace, he followed his chosen Prime into the ship, though a whisper in the back of his processor nagged at him.  Had he made the right choice?  Could he really trust Sentinel after all?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so ends another arc! 
> 
> This chapter was a pain in my butt to write, but I was able to solidify a lot of things for future chapters in the process, so I guess that's a plus?


	22. In the Cave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shockwave meets with an old friend.

The verdict proclaiming Prowl's innocence was met with undue celebration - folks were smiling again, playing games, wasting their energon rations for a single moment of happiness.  It all came together as one more insult that Shockwave had to put up with.

Prowl had been found innocent of Ratchet's murder -good form him.  He  _was_  after all.  And Shockwave's greatest fear, that the blame would be shifted to the actual guilty party next, had not come to pass.  But he was not happy.

It had been a mistake to kill Ratchet.  One poorly-thought out action in a moment of panic had left him in a world of trouble, not that the medic had left him much choice.  Ratchet's fate had been sealed from that first day on the island, when he'd had his hands buried deep within Shockwave's exposed chest.  He'd been suspicious - of the spark that was too big, working too hard, of the compressed energon lines and circuits, the building charge of a power in use - the interior of a large mech stuffed into the body of a small one.

But dear old Ratchet, with his pure spark and morals dulled by eons of peace, had been insistent on finding proof before condemnation.   When Shockwave's internal diagnostics confirmed what he'd already suspected - that Longarm Prime was a Decepticon war frame disguised as an Autobot laborer, it was already too late.  The moment he had plugged into Shockwave's medical port, a virus, designed by Shockwave himself, was uploaded into the old medic's spark, without his notice.  Paranoia struck the bot with the suddenness of lightning, and too frightened to risk exposing his new knowledge to Shockwave's closest confidants, the present Intelligence Division, he ran away from the base, and to his death.  The rest of it - the storm cutting communications, the suspicious fallen tree, Prowl's own isolation at the time, had all been more-or-less happy circumstance.  The move had been risky, but had ultimately worked out in his favor.  Until now.

Jazz - perceptive, unbiased fragger that he was, had come just shy of ruining everything, dropping into the trial at the last moment with information he had no business having.  Once the opportunity arose, he would be the next to die.  In the meantime, Shockwave had business to attend to.

"Longarm?  Are you all right?  You seem upset," Blurr said from his side.  The two were seated against a wall within the ship, away from the others and the game they were playing, choosing instead to bask in each other's presence.  It was sappy, Shockwave knew, but somehow, he didn't mind.  The rapid pulse of Blurr's EM field, radiating contentment and calm, was a welcome presence at Shockwave's side, and the prior silence made calculating his next move all the easier.  Now, however, Blurr's words gave him one more thing to think about.

His pretty little Autobot had proven to be increasingly good at reading Longarm as of late, and he feared that it wasn't merely due to their increased contact.  As a mech who thrived on power and control, Shockwave had always been bad at handling its absence, and in recent days, the resource had been found severely lacking.  His tension shone through, even on Longarm's disconnected features.  Had he gotten too absorbed in the character?  Become so used to faking expressions to fit the situation that they were coming second nature to him?  Perhaps.  Either way, it was something he'd have to fix.  Damned if he'd be given away by something so trite as the tilt of an optic ridge, the twitch of a lip.

"Yes.  I'm just worried."  It felt like a neutral-enough thing to say, and wasn't actually a lie.

"About the other occupants of the island?  Or is this something more internal?  I think the others have been a bit wary of us since the trial.  Even Optimus hasn't approached you, when in the past he seemed to come to you for guidance, and the others didn't bother inviting either of us to their game, which seems like odd behavior - Jazz has always been so inclusive in the past.  And don't even get me started on Cliffjumper.  I think I'm going to have to talk to him.  All that's happened, I don't think he'd be good to have as an enemy."

Shockwave always admired Blurr's uncanny ability to summarize the most pertinent details of any given situation.  Longarm pulled the light frame tighter to his side, nuzzling a shoulder pauldron affectionately.  He'd given up on hiding their relationship form the others.  Blurr was  _his_  and Sentinel and Cliffjuper both needed to see that.

"Sir," Blurr protested, wriggling in his grasp, but not pulling away.

"Yes and yes.  My behavior of late has been awful for the both of us.  I apologize."

This time when Blurr wriggled, it was to get into a more comfortable position, his hands seeking out Longarm's own and squeezing tight.  Insignificant as the motion was, Shockwave couldn't keep his spark from pulsing faster.

"No need to apologize, Sir.  I understand why you did it - I told you I did, and I was the one who chose to keep my mouth shut, even though I probably shouldn't have.  I guess I panicked too."

Blurr was undeniably a sharp bot - a little too sharp sometimes - more so than was safe for either of them.  He recalled their encounter earlier that morning, when Blurr expressed concern upon finding out that Longarm was going to argue for Prowl's guilt.

" _Blurr, after Prowl is proven innocent, who do you think they'll look to next as a guilty party?_ "

It was unnerving just how close Blurr came to the truth in his answer, as he explained in detail exactly how Longarm could have (and indeed  _had_ ) murdered Ratchet.  Once more, Shockwave feared that he would have to snuff out that tiny spark before his mission was jeopardized.  Fortunately, it hadn't come to that.

" _I'll do what it takes to keep you safe, Sir."_ Sweet though the sentiment was when expressed in words, Shockwave found that he much preferred seeing it in action - the confident gleam in Blurr's optics as he concisely gave his patchwork account of events, the way he stood proudly at attention in the face of Sentinel's opposition, and there was something especially satisfying about seeing Blurr lie to his own comrades to protect _him_.  Shockwave was almost willing to bet that he could show his true face to the little mech, and _still_  remain incapable of any wrongdoing in Blurr's optics.

"You're very sweet, Blurr."  He wrapped an arm around Blurr's thin waist, pulling him into his lap, and holding on tight.  Blurr squawked, looking around the room with frantic optics, anxiety intensified by his own loud protestation.  Surely someone would see!  But it soon became clear that the others were too wrapped up in their game to pay the lovebirds any mind.  Blurr calmed down as quickly as he'd panicked, taking advantage of his new position to melt into Shockwave's chest.

"They're gonna see us, Sir."

"Let them," he smiled against the crest of Blurr's helm, planting a kiss.  He didn't like the sensation of using his lips, found the unfamiliar movements awkward at best, but Blurr seemed to appreciate it, and that made Shockwave far happier than it had any business doing.

If he'd had his way, Shockwave never would have released Blurr from his arms again, but circumstances were not so kind.  There was business to attend to, before the others ruined all of his hard work.  Pleasure would have to wait.  Blurr probably wouldn't appreciate public exhibition anyway.

"I'm going to run back to the cave for a few kliks.  You think you could cover for me?"

Blurr shifted.  "Hmm?  Do you want me to come with you Sir?  Prowl may have been proven innocent, but we're not safe yet."

"No need to worry about me," Longarm chuckled.  "I'll be quick."

Blurr looked as though he wanted to protest, but he thought better of it.  "Yes Sir.  I'll get back to work then.  I think I'm close to a breakthrough."

Longarm laughed once more, a fake action that was altogether uncharacteristic of Shockwave.  It was another of those things that Blurr liked.  "I'm counting on you."  He tilted Blurr's chin towards himself, and in one more uncharacteristic move, planted a chaste kiss on Blurr's mouth - their first.  With any luck, it would distract the little bot from thinking too hard about what Longarm might be up to out there on his own.  As someone without a mouth, Shockwave never  _did_  understand the significance of kissing.  It seemed like quite the inconvenient weakness.

Predictably, Blurr did in fact start blushing and babbling, but that wasn't important.  With a playful wink, Shockwave took his leave.

~~~

He'd been lying about his destination, of course.  He left the ship in the same direction, even came to the same hillside, but he didn't stop there, didn't pass the entrance of the cave that had become a second home to him and Blurr this past deca-cycle.

Thinking about their time spent together - countless hours of innocent holding one another - filled him with a sense of longing.  He was winning Blurr's favor at a delightfully quick pace.  Soon enough, the little dear would give himself over to Shockwave mind, spark, and body.  Shockwave's engine rumbled deeply at the thought, the need to finally move past chaste kisses and tender embraces finally coming to light.  But Shockwave was nothing if not patient.  Now was not the time for such thought regardless.

He dared not shed his disguise entirely so long as he was so exposed, but he moved through the darkness swiftly enough, legs stretching, pulling him onward with the smooth speed of a shadow.

Half-a-mile beyond  _his_  cave was the destination he sought - another hole on a hillside covered in them.  Travelling the caves was risky going - beneath the surface lay a series of deep caverns that wound their way around much of the island, many of which led to dead ends.  It would be difficult for an unsuspecting pursuant to choose the right path, and though he hadn't  _seen_  anyone follow him, Shockwave wasn't about to take any chances.

He dipped into one cavern, one that he knew well-enough, full of forks and bends that were easy to get lost in.  He knew which way to go - right, right, left, straight; until he found himself back on the surface.  Confident that any potential followers had been shaken, he made a cursory look around and ducked into the correct entrance.

As he strode deeper into the darkness, his body began to grow and grow, the ground became farther away, extraneous facial mechanics dulled, before disappearing altogether.  Hands turned to claws, a small, portly frame became tall and lean, arms and legs stretched out, and his head pulled itself away from his shoulders.  It wasn't the first time he'd dropped the disguise since coming to the island, but it had been long enough that he was glad for the opportunity.  By the time he reached the inner chamber he sought, all that remained of Longarm was his paint job.

"Shockwave," a high, accusing voice called out.  "Took you long enough."

Illuminated in the violet light of manufactured energon cubes was a femme, small and dark, organic bits mixed in with mechanical in a most chaotic manner.  Four eyes, extra legs perched on her shoulder blades, and a bulbous, spider-like abdomen that sat at her back, were all features of a bot that was not quite right, but the same could be said of most Decepticons; a frame like that was accepted amongst their ranks without question.  The femme, Blackarachnia, stood at a work table erected in the middle of the junk that cluttered the chamber, attention half on perfecting their latest science project, half on Shockwave.

In the shadows beyond lurked her little experiment, Waspinator, he was called, unseen.  Though the sound of his buzzing remained a constant reminder of his presence.

"I've been held up by a little Autobot murder mystery," he responded, a touch flatly.  It was rather refreshing to not have to emote anymore.  As natural as it had become in recent days, the act was still rather draining.

"Your fault, not mine," Blackarachnia snapped, before returning back to the device she'd been working on, which flickered weakly in her hands, emanating a stuttering hum, before at last cutting out.  "Still no good," she muttered to herself.

Shockwave saw no issue with interrupting her.  "Actually, the fault doesn't lie entirely with me.  I may have killed the Autobot, but it was  _your_  deeds that kept me away for so long."

She looked up from her work with a glare.  "What do you mean?"

"I mean the Autobot's have learned of your presence  on the island.  Webs, Blackarachnia?"

Blackarachnia shrugged, all four arms rising with the motion.  "My electormagnetic webs are vital in procuring the necessary components we need in order to produce our own energon.  They're far more efficient than hunting down wild beasts one at a time."

"You've gotten sloppy," he brushed off her protest, instead gliding into the room to look over her work.  "You need another power converter."

The look she shot him promised a most painful death.  "I didn't ask for your help."

"Do you want off this planet?" he retorted, claws playing idly with an unused power cell.

"I forget," she snarled.  " _Which_  of us is chief science officer?"

There was no need to reply.  She would obey his recommendation, even if it stabbed at her pride, not that she had anything to be ashamed of.  Blackarachnia had been on the island for far longer than Shockwave, had arrived alone with little more than the meager contents of her subspace, and here she was - half-finished with her own makeshift spacebridge. 

"Waspinator, bring me another energon cube," she demanded.

"Yess, Ssspider Lady!"  Waspinator buzzed, pulling a cube from the nearby wall.

"Besides, Shockwave," she began again with more composure as she snatched the power cell from Shockwave's clutches, and carefully measured the glowing energon into it.  "I have just as much to be angry about."

Shockwave tilted his head, moving away to inspect the skeleton of the space bridge.  "Oh?"

"Why didn't you tell me that Optimus and Sentinel were on the island?"

Surprised though he was, Shockwave did not visibly react.  It was one more thing he loved about having no face.  "Oh that?  I did not realize they were important to you."

"Like the Pit you didn't!" she spat, slamming a half-built converter on her work bench.  The rattle of loose parts breaking free and spilling across the table was quick to follow.

"Careful," he chastised.  "There's no need to waste resources."

She ignored the jab.  "Head of Autobot Intelligence, like I believe you never looked into the history of those cog-heads, and surely you looked into my own.  You didn't think to tell me that my old  _friends_  were in the neighborhood?  You're lucky you're still useful to me."

He wasn't particularly interested in Blackarachnia's bitterness, favoring instead to marvel at the masterpiece on the wall - the spacebridge that was going to get them home.  It was looking good.  Shockwave gave it an approving nod.  "I take it that it was you who stole their memories?"

"I may have . . . run into them once or twice."

"I see," he muttered, with the barest hint of displeasure.  Between Blackarachnia's muck ups and his own, it would be a miracle if they managed to escape this island without a massacre.  Not that he was opposed to killing Autobots, of course.  But while their own might may have been superior, the Autobots had them outnumbered.  It would be foolish to start something right now.

"Besides, they wouldn't have found out at all if  _somebody_  hadn't killed himself an Autobot.  If anyone has the right to be mad, it's me."

"And Waspinator," came an echo from behind her.  "Waspinator ssso angry!"

"Yes, and Waspinator," she conceded, slotting the new converter in beside the old one.  This time, it let loose a bright flash before dying out.  "Real helpful."

Shockwave shrugged his treads.  "It will be fine.  And as for Ratchet, I allowed myself to be maneuvered into a corner, and for that, I  _do_  apologize.  But what does it matter who's to blame?  You've made much progress in my absence.  We'll be off-planet soon enough."

Indeed, while Shockwave had certainly contributed to the advancement of the space bridge, ninety percent of the work had been completed by Blackarachnia.  He'd stumbled upon her in his early days on the island, and vaguely remembered her as the bot who had replaced him as science officer.  She'd been a bit dodgy about how she'd come to arrive in this place, but it didn't matter much to Shockwave.  All he wanted was to be back on Cybertron again, or wherever he was assigned, doing his master's bidding as he should have been.  He didn't care too much about the personal affairs of the folks that got him there.

Seeing a reasonable prospect for getting off this backwater planet, he'd jumped at the chance to help Blackarachnia, to provide an extra optic to look over her work, give a few suggestions, assist in research.  His energon rations had come from her own devices, his haste in narrowing down their corner of the galaxy - rooted within her own research.  With any luck, Blurr would finish that job soon, and they could truly move on.  Speaking of . . .

"One more thing, before I forget."

Blackarachnia let out a pained sigh.  "What now?"

"There's been a development in my absence.  I would like to bring one of the Autobots with me."

Again, Blackarachnia looked up form her work.  "What, the little speedster you've been all over?  How about 'no?'"

A deep rumble escaped Shockwave's vocaliser, ancient, powerful, deadly.  Waspinator cowered before it, but Blackarachnia stood tall.  "My decision is not up for debate," he growled, leaning close.

Implied threats would never be enough to sway the little spider.  He should have known better.  "I'm sorry,  _who_  was the one who wanted to get back to his precious Megatron?"

"Don't," Shockwave snarled, lowering his head in threat, like a bull-bot, preparing to charge.  No one spoke of Megatron so dismissively.  Fortunately, Blackarachnia took the hint, and sent the conversation spiraling away from Megatron, and right back to Blurr.

"Look, do you realize how _long_  you'll have to poke at that toy of yours to get him to  _not_  try and eliminate us on sight?  He likes the bot he thinks you are - not you.  The moment you show your true lack-of-face, he's gonna take off running for the hills, and you'll never catch him."

Shockwave took a step back, forcing himself back to composure.  It wasn't an easy feat - just one more thing to blame on Longarm.

"I am confident in my ability to sway him.  Already, I have been working to isolate him from the rest - a rift has been sewn, and so long as Sentinel is here, it won't take long for him to lose his faith in the Autobots altogether.  And once there, he will have nowhere to turn but myself."

"Right," Blackarachnia scoffed.  "You're a real super villain, you know that?"

Shockwave tilted his head again.  What was this nonsense coming out of this spider's mouth?

She shook her helm, dismissing her joke, and returned her attention to the converter.  "Never mind.  Take as long as you want.  Not like  _I_  have anywhere to be.  Organics as far as the optics can see isn't even so bad once you've lived with it for a couple stellar cycles.  I could stay here _forever_."  Sarcasm wasn't something Shockwave was well-versed in, but he had the feeling Blackarachnia wasn't being entirely sincere.

"Though I don't know what you intend to do with him once you convert him, provided you even can.  Get him to join the cause?  Keep him as a pet?"

"It doesn't matter what I do with him.  It is not your concern."  Shockwave said, unable to keep the anger out of his voice.  It was time to go.  Losing his tempter would be counter-productive.  Blackarachnia was right, and he knew it, but his spark begged to differ, and sparks were a dangerous and mysterious force.  Perhaps he would be better off replacing his with something a little more synthetic?  The wild emotions that had plagued the thing as of late had certainly done a fair job at jeopardizing his mission. 

Venting deeply, he stepped away from the half-built spacebridge, heading back towards the mouth of the cave.

"Leaving so soon?"

"The trial may be over, but suspicions are still high.  I need to return before I am missed too dearly."

"Back to sweet baby blue, you mean."

This time, Shockwave successfully resisted the urge to growl.  "Yes.  And I want you to take more care.  The spider webs can't be helped, but I do not want to hear about any more missing memories.   _Do not_  approach Optimus or Sentinel."

A flick of the wrist slotted the converter properly into place.  Her device sprang to life, glowing boldly, and singing a healthy hum.  "Of course," she said with a smile.  "So long as you don't blow our cover with another murder."

Shockwave didn't bother responding to that.  He turned to leave once again; this time he was stopped by a voice.

"Shock bot, Waspinator have question."

"I'm listening," he responded, peeved, if only slightly.  Feeling only the shadows of emotion was how things were  _supposed_  to be.  It was an agreeable sensation that he longed for more of.  Strong emotions were too difficult to manage properly.  It was another thing to look forward to about going home - the stability and control that allowed him to keep his emotions in check.

He turned to face Waspinator.

The insect-like bot had at last stepped out of the shadows, rubbing his claws together like a predator poised to strike.  "Shock bot says Optimus Prime is on island.  Does that mean that Bumblebot and Bulky-bot are on island too?"

Shockwave hesitated.  Blackarachnia, he trusted not to do anything too reckless, but he'd hardly known the bot Waspinator  _was_ ,  and he'd only met his current incarnation once before.  The bot was an uncertain factor, and Shockwave didn't like it.  Perhaps he could arrange this thing's death as well?

The answer to Waspinator's question was pulled from his servos before he had too much time to dwell.

"The green one and the yellow one? " Blackarachia cut in.  "Yeah, they're here."

The striped, green abomination erupted in a cacophony of cackles, which echoed and grew, bouncing  across the halls of the cave, until it all but drowned out Shockwave's thoughts.  Maybe Blackarachina was on to something with her strange, childish super villain analogy.  They had the evil laugh down pat.

No matter.

Shockwave would have to trust Blackarachnia to reign in her pet.  He had more important things to get back to.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fully admit that I've watched Beast Wars since TFA, so Blackarachnia and Waspinator may be more reminiscent of their incarnations there than they should be. Alas. I am too lazy to go watch Predacons Rising >


	23. Penance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz and Prowl have a little heart-to-heart.

Were there better things to do at the moment?  Yes, of course!  The presence of new enemies on the island had been brought to light, and it was highly unlikely that they'd stop being a threat long enough for Jazz and friends to take a break and play a game of cards.  But what way to live was that - so afraid of the next looming threat that 'fun' was an alien concept?  There was much to celebrate in light of the Primes' decision.  Damned if he wasn't gonna do so!

The warm buzz of the week's energon rations spread from Jazz's tank through his fuel lines, filling him with a glee he'd not felt in far too long.  The others had been surprised when he'd made the suggestion to drink the remaining extent of his rations at once, all for the sake of a little overcharge.  It was immature, yes, but Jazz had a feeling that energon wouldn't be a problem anymore very shortly, at least if the bright blue finish of a certain mech's coat was anything to go by.  Blurr (and Longarm by extension) had found a source of food.   Why they hadn't shared it with the rest of camp yet was anyone's guess, though Jazz wasn't completely without understanding as to why the pair might want to hide the information.  Still, he had every intention of learning their secret, one way or another.

Bumblebee, ever in a constant struggle to prove himself, had mimicked Jazz's actions, and downed his rations, while Bulkhead stuck to his usual restrictions, citing that it would take more than his allotment to get him overcharged, so why bother?  It didn't lessen his laughter when Bumblebee made a joke, however, nor reduce his smile when he made a play that beat even Jazz's pair of Fuzors

Prowl played too - this time of his own volition.  He was restricted from imbibing any fuel for the sake of his recently-perforated torso, but while his smiles were scarce and his words few, he  _did_  seem to be enjoying the moment, if only that.  The mech had more to celebrate than anyone, so why then, did he fall so easily to melancholy the moment he was left to his own thoughts?

"Cheer up, Prowl.  No one thinks you're a psycho killer anymore!"  That was Bumblebee, drunkenly hitting the nail on the head, before laying down his cards.

"I couldn't hazard a guess as to what you mean," said Prowl, cooly brushing off Bumblebee's concerns.

"Oh, I get it!"  You're just sad 'cause you suck at this game!" He flipped his cards, triumphantly taking his share of chips from Prowl's pile.  Prowl looked appropriately perturbed.

"Hold up, Little Buddy."  And then his move was promptly countered by Bulkhead, who in turn pulled the chip pile his way.

"Jazz," Bumblebee begged.  "Help me out here!" 

Jazz shrugged a helpless shrug.  "Sorry Bee.  I got nothin.'"

Bumblebee didn't linger in his defeat for long.  "Ugh, you guys are the worst!  You know what this game needs?  More players!  Where's Optimus?  Where's Blurr?  Come  _on_!"

"Optimus is off chillin' with Sentinel and his gang.  And as for Blurr . . ." Jazz turned his attention to the tightly-entwined couple lounging against the wall at Bumblebee's back.  He'd known Blurr for a long time now, and found it grossly out of character for him to be this public with his affections, least of all with a commanding officer.  Not that the bot wasn't in sore need of lightening up, but this was all happening too fast.  What had Longarm done to him?  "Probably shouldn't bother 'im.  Bot's gettin' busy."  He grinned despite his misgivings.  There was no need to clue the others in yet.

Bumblebee seemed to miss the double entendre, but accepted the answer nonetheless.  "Oh.  Man, I don't know.  I don't really wanna play with anyone else."  He folded his arms with a pout.

Jazz had stopped paying attention, however.  One moment, the lovebirds were ensconced within one another, as though the Allspark itself couldn't pull them apart, the next, Longarm was rising to his feet and, careful not to draw attention to himself, walking out the door.  Blurr did not follow him, as Jazz had thought he would, but instead settled himself against the now-empty wall, pulled out his mass of datapads, and got back to work at twice his normal speed.

Just where was Longarm off to without his recently-acquired fifth wheel?  Why did he not want Blurr to follow?  And why would he choose to leave now, when they'd only just discovered the presence of other, potentially hostile bodies on the island?  Was he going off to acquire some extra energon?  Or something less innocent?  Even such innocuous behavior as leaving the room had sent Jazz into a spiral of suspicion.  He'd been on the island for far too long; was growing as paranoid as the rest of them.  Still, it was worth looking into.

"I think I'm gonna call it a night," he said, rising to his feet.

"But Jazz," Bumblebee pleaded.  "We were having fun!"

"Y'all keep havin' fun," he smiled, addressing Bumblebee first, and then the rest of the group.  "Ask Blurr to play too.  It looks like he just found himself with a little free time."  Bumblebee looked to Blurr at the suggesetion, an expression of drunken wonder on his face.  "But I got some Primes to check in with.  Night."  He offered a little wave as he extracted himself from the circle.

The assurances seemed to be enough for his card-playing companions, but they had also managed to snag the attention of Blurr, who stared back at Jazz in a manner that was strangely unreadable.  He very well may have guessed the nature of Jazz's departure, so close to Longarm's.  That  _was_ all the bot thought about these days, so the connection wouldn't have been difficult to make.  Fortunately, Blurr made no move to stop him.

Jazz offered the bot a thumbs up and smiled, lingering just long enough to see Bumblebee and Bulkhead toddle over.  They would prove distraction-enough, at least for a short while.  Jazz took the opportunity to make his escape, at a casual saunter, of course.  There was no need to arouse further suspicion. 

Outside, Jazz caught up with Longarm easily enough, following him through the densest part of the island, which proved beneficial, as it provided more places to hide.  And Jazz needed every one of them.  Longarm's EM field was spread wide, as though expecting to find someone in pursuit.  His optics may have been fixed forward, but he was no less aware of his surroundings.

What surprised Jazz most about the situation, rather than Longarm's solitude or vigilance, was the way in which he was now moving ; it was unlike anything Jazz had seen from him in the two vorns he'd known he guy.  He moved fast, faster than he had any right to - gliding through the forest on his legs - expanding, contracting, expanding, pulling him along like a magical beast, rather than a run-of-the-mill ground-frame.  Even Jazz found himself struggling to keep up. 

Once they reached the cave, Jazz lost him altogether.

He waited a few kliks to follow Longarm inside, weapon drawn, ready to fight or flee, should it prove to be a trap.  Instead, he was brought to a fork, to a winding corridor, another fork,  a dead end.  By the time he found his way out, Longarm was long gone.

Had Longarm done that on purpose? Had he used the cave to throw off the trail?  If he had, then he'd just found his name listed at the very top of the list Jazz kept of the most suspicious of all Autobots.  He'd have to prove that Longarm was  _actually_  up to something heinous, however, if he wanted to pursue that suspicion.  It was just as likely that Longarm had taken a different path through the cave to his destination, though his true purpose remained a mystery.

Jazz didn't have time to dwell on Longarm's peculiar behaviors, however, for there, standing just at the mouth of the cave, was Prowl, frowning and terse and looking for all the world like he wanted to be somewhere else.

"You come here often?" Jazz joked, stepping out into the open air, a cocky smile on his face.

Prowl folded his arms with a huff, but didn't vocally complain.  "Why did you leave alone?  It's dangerous out here."

"I'm Elite Guard," Jazz countered.  "I can't remember the last time I did something that wasn't."

The light tone did nothing to dissuade Prowl's hard stare.  "You're up to something."

"If by 'up to something' you mean spying on Longarm, then you ain't wrong."  Jazz offered a dismissive shrug. 

Prowl remained unimpressed.  "Why are you spying on Longarm?"

"'Cuz the bot's shady as the Pit.  You ain't got nothin' on  _him,_ let me tell ya."

Prowl's silence prompted Jazz to continue.  "Bot's been off on his own more 'n not - held up just long enough for everyone to stop jumpin' at each other's throats screamin' 'Murder!' before gettin' back to his old habits.  What's he gettin' up to out here?  You can't tell me you ain't the least bit curious."

"I'm not," Prowl protested, voice flat as ever.  "I've got enough on my plate as it is, without having to deal with another bot's issues."  His hand was resting unconsciously against the slap-dash welds on his torso plating.  Jazz frowned.

"You shouldn't be up and about right now anyway.  You gonna get yourself hurt if you ain't careful."

"I don't care."

Now wasn't  _that_ interesting?   Jazz let his smile drop.  "Why you sayin' a thing like that?  A lot of folks went outta their way to keep you safe.  You'd make 'em cry if you got hurt doin' something stupid."

Prowl shook his head.  "Maybe they were wrong to save me."  He kept his gaze fixed on Jazz's, almost in challenge.  That was fine.  Jazz could play that game.

"Now you sound like Optimus."

Prowl faltered at the comparison.  It was clear that he'd been expecting a different reaction - sympathy, protestation, condemnation perhaps.  What he'd gotten instead was a rather apt joke.  The poor mech had no idea how to respond.  "I'm serious!" he protested, once he'd regained enough of his wits to form words with his mouth.

Jazz was having none of it.  "And I am too.  We don't need  _two_  self-deprecating mechs 'round here.  What's up with you?"

At last, Prowl broke the eye contact, turning to the side, suddenly wary.  "I think that I was responsible for the death of . . ."  He hesitated, not wanting to finish his sentence.  Jazz had no problem doing it for him, however.

"Who, Ratchet?  I really don't believe that, and even if you did, it woulda been an accident, yeah?"

"Not Ratchet," Prowl hissed.  "I did everything in my power to save him.  It was the least I could do after killing everyone else!"

So that was it.  "The engine core?"  Jazz questioned, recalling his previous interaction with Prowl on the subject, least of all how spooked the other mech had become in the face of his accusations.

And even now, Prowl was already edging back towards the trees, body urging him to escape, just as he'd finally managed the courage to spill his spark.  It seemed to take him great effort to still those restless legs of his, to remain with Jazz, to open up to him.  Jazz found it admirable. 

"The passengers, the protoforms, Master  _Yoketron_!  I killed them all."  His mouth fell open, as if in awe of the things he'd just said.  This time, he did flee, though he didn't make it very far.  Between his injuries and Jazz's skill, he'd never had a chance.  Jazz cornered him against a thick tree, one arm perched lazily above Prowl's head in a move that would have looked flirty to a passerby, but was meant to cage any attempt at retreat.

"Prowl," he said, gently, despite the threat in his position.  "Care to explain that better?  The passengers, I get, but you said that you wanted to save Master Yoketron.  Now you sayin' he's dead?  Which is true?  And the protoforms?  You can't expect me to follow you on blind faith, and you can't expect any help if you give none yourself.  What's your deal?"

After a moment's hesitation, Prowl forced himself to meet Jazz's optics, though his usual stoic nature was a thin facade, if his EM field was any indication.  Even pressed tightly to his body as it was, Jazz could feel the wild buzz of fear within.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this.  I was supposed to get in, get the protoforms, and get out.  I didn't expect to get attached."

Jazz was surprised, which was not exactly a common occurrence.  This time, it was  _he_  who withdrew, stumbling backward half a step.  "Say what?!  You said -"

"I know what I said.   _He_  took them.  I tried to back out, so he ditched me - said I was a liability.  But I wanted so badly to make this right.  I thought if I got in good with him again, I could fix it.  I could get the protoforms back at least.  So I called him up, and he made me a deal.  He told me about the quantum engines, and told me he wanted engine cores.   _That_  would prove that I really wanted to make amends.  We were to meet in Hedonia."

Jazz backed down, throwing his arms behind his head in exasperation.  "Yeesh.  You couldn'ta told me all this when we first met?" 

"And you would've aided me in sabotaging the ship?"  Prowl was standing with more confidence now.  Perhaps it had helped to finally release that heavy weight he'd been carrying.  Jazz, however, was not to be driven to the defensive for long.

"Of course not!  But we coulda helped you in other ways.  Stop this guy, whoever he is.  Get the protoforms back.  And what of Master Yoketron?  You told me you wanted to save him."

"Dead.  I hoped you'd be more inclined to help me if there was a sense of urgency.  As for the rest, forgive me for not having the highest confidence in the Autobot military."

That was fair.  They'd done much to prove their own incompetence, even before their current predicament.  Prowl was right to distrust them.  But that didn't keep Jazz from lamenting the fact that one bot's lack of faith in the system had helped lead them to their situation.  

"I didn't think that taking an engine core or two would cause the engines to explode.  There were so many of them, and the ship was so big, I thought it would be fine.  If I had known, I never would have . . ." he cut himself off, confidence finally shaken.

As nice as it was to learn more about their situation, something about the story didn't add up to Jazz.  He'd had suspicions that the engines had been tampered with, based on the presence of the core on the island, but Jazz was right - stealing one or two of those, from a total of twelve, wouldn't have caused the engines to explode.  Even stealing  _all_ of the engine cores shouldn't have caused the engines to explode.  Sputter out and die would have been more likely, at least according to Wheeljack's test results which he'd  _accidentally_  taken a glance at. The cores themselves were more likely to explode than the engines proper, and even they would have needed to be put through great stress to reach that point.

And there was still the case of the explosives to consider.  The engine room crew had found them, hiding in engine number three, and had reported it to him.  But those had been disarmed - Pit, they'd never been armed in the first place.  He'd checked.

Did they hold any relevance at all?  Were they merely intended as a scare tactic, or had they somehow managed to arm themselves and destroy the ship in the short time following their discovery?  And how had they gotten there in the first place?  Jazz feared that all of his answers had gone down with the ship.  On the other hand, Longarm was beginning to look more and more suspicious by the day.  There was no motive to be seen as far as Jazz could tell, but he wouldn't put acts of terrorism past the guy, or really anyone in their party, with the exception of perhaps Bumblebee - who had incidentally left the room unguarded for long enough that Jazz and at least one other mech had found the time to wander in.  Maybe he was too trusting of the little guy.

He shook his head.  Until another miraculous lead landed at his pedes, there wasn't much he could do about the issue of sabotage.  Well, there was _one_  thing.

"Don't beat yourself up yet.  We don't know what went down that night.  No one does."

"I sabotaged the ship," Prowl protested.  "I killed all of those people."

"Yeah, you sabotaged the ship.  But did you plant the explosives?"

Prowl tilted his head.  "Explosives?  You're the second one to bring this up.  There were no explosives."

"Ah, but there were.  Saw 'em myself.  So you see, we don't know if you're guilty or not.  At least for now.  So why freak over it?"

Prowl shook his head wildly.  "But Master Yoketron.  And the protoforms!"

Jazz interrupted before he could say any more on the subject.  "Did you kill Master Yoketron with your own two hands?"

Again, Prowl shook his head, though more subdued this time.  "No."

"And the protoforms ain't dead yet, yeah?"

"Yes, but -"

Jazz held up a hand to interrupt.  "Then you ain't killed no one.  So don't be gettin' any fool ideas into your head, like turning yourself in."

This time, Prowl was silent.  Jazz took it as a cue to continue.

"Sentinel will kill you if he finds out.  You know that.  I know that.  And after the last few days, so does everybody else.  But you also know that anyone who stood up for you at the trial will be discredited, yeah?  And we can't have that - not right now, not when we tryin' to make the impossible work.  We gotta get off this planet, and that means everyone workin' together,  _trusting_  each other.  Ratchet's murder set us back bad enough as it is, I ain't lettin' anyone else bite it on my watch."

"But -" Prowl tried again, to no avail.

"If you're still feelin' guilty after we get home, then by all means, turn yourself in if that's what'll get you peace.  But until then, don't you dare go takin' the easy way out.  We clear?"

Prowl was silent for a long moment, but this time, Jazz left him to it.  Jazz was an easy-going mech by nature.  He didn't dwell on his past mistakes, and silly things like penance and retribution never crossed his mind.  But Prowl was a fundamentally different mech, even if they had studied the same philosophies.  He'd seen and caused much pain in his life; that much was clear.  Making amends for his blunders was something he needed.  He could take as much time as he wanted to gather himself; Jazz wouldn't deny him that.

"I understand," Prowl said, at long last.  "I will do what I can to help, until we make it off this planet.  Though I fear the things I can do are not many."

Something about the way he'd uttered the words rubbed Jazz the wrong way.  He was starting to get good at spotting the lies, the way Prowl would become subdued when he was afraid to say more, they way he'd frown just  _so_ , and clench his fists.  Jazz's failure to notice it in their initial meeting had cost everyone dearly, but now, it was hard to imagine what more there was to hide.  He had been so earnest with Jazz throughout the duration of their conversation.  If he was lying now, then surely it was for good reason.  Jazz again allowed him to his silence.  He would speak should it become necessary.

The conversation was well and done by this point.  It had left Jazz with much to mull over, but there would be plenty of time for that later.  It was getting late, and Jazz was in no mood plague himself with unpleasant thoughts of death and despair, not when the night was so clear, when the stars and moon shone brightly enough to bathe the entire hillside in their glow.  It was beautiful, and Jazz wanted to appreciate all of it, from the wind in the trees, to the trickle of the waterfall, the vivid color of the wildflowers, and the at-last serene presence of the mech beside him.  It seemed that Prowl had come to a similar conclusion, in regards to what was really important right now.  Having fun with the group was a nice distraction, good to grant a smile or two, but nothing gave Prowl joy more than the being in the presence of organic nature.  On Cybertron, his strange passion would have made him a pariah, but here, with no one but Jazz to judge him, he was wonderful.  Jazz too, was a mech that appreciated beauty in all of its forms.  Surely no one saw this world for the paradise that it was more than the two of them.

Jazz didn't answer his comm until the third buzz, and even then, it was with hesitation.  Someone back at camp would be wanting his assistance with something-or-another, and while it was his duty to help them, he would be lying to say he wouldn't prefer to appreciate the scenery a few kliks more.

"Ah, Little Bee!  How's it hangin'?"

"Jazz!" Bumblebee cried out, voice bubbling with much excitement, either from lingering overcharge, or because something genuinely great had happened.  Jazz hoped for the latter. 

Just this once, his hope wasn't in vain. 

"I've got great news!  You guys gotta get back here right away!" 

"Why, what's up?" Jazz asked, unable to contain the excitement in his voice.  Bumblebee's energy was contagious.

"Blurr's figured out where we are!"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to wrap this up in the next ten chapters or so. We'll see how well I actually can commit to that.


	24. The Truth Is, I Like You a Whole Lot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cliffjumper finally gets around to that conversation he's been meaning to have with Blurr. It doesn't go quite as planned.

There was much to do to manage the newly-discovered threat on the island.  The problem was that no one knew quite how.  The webs were the only substantial lead they were in possession of, but they were scattered all about in an erratic manner.  It was nearly impossible to pinpoint a potential base of operations for their foes based on that alone.

The group had considered the possibility of restoring Optimus's, Sentinel's and all of the others' stolen memories, but Ratchet was dead, and for one reason or another, nobody trusted Longarm to dig around inside of their processors, so that idea was scrapped in its infancy.

Discontent with merely sitting around and twiddling their servos while waiting for inspiration to strike, a small team was sent out to try and acquire one of the spiders webs for purposes of research.  Cliffjumper was one o f the bots on this team, as were Sentinel, Optimus, Jetfire, and Jetstorm.  Rightfully, Longarm Prime should have been there, but he'd claimed that he was feeling unwell, and had gone off to sit with Blurr.  Pit, Blurr and Jazz both should have been on the away team as well.  Apparently, Cliffjumper was the only one with a true sense of urgency.  Frag the lot of them!

After two and a half cycles of searching, they finally happened upon their first spider web.  Well, perhaps 'happened upon' wasn't quite right.  'Happened into' would have been much more accurate.  And more specifically, "Cliffjumper had happened into" was the most accurate of all.

"What the frag?!" he cried out, as what had seemed a clear path through the trees became solid netting, sending a violent pulse through his circuits, holding him fast.  He couldn't move, couldn't even squirm.  If the others hadn't heard his scream, didn't know to come and free him, then there was a good chance that he would be the first bot to find their culprit, and by extension the next bot to die, if what had been determined at the trial was in fact true.  He wasn't sure if he believed it or not, but he certainly didn't want to find out first-hand.  He wished he could whimper.  It felt like a whimpering kind of moment.

Cliffjumper remained fastened to that web long enough that the sun finished setting behind the distant hills, and the night sky began to spill a few fat raindrops upon his immobilized helm.  It was cold.

A moment of panic seized him.  Was this how Ratchet had died?  Fastened to a web, injected with some kind of venom.  He could hear a rustling in the bushes just out of sight, and knew right then that his time had come.  He braced himself, praying that his firewalls were up-to-date enough to result in mere memory loss, rather than fatality. 

"Cliffjumper?"  But that wasn't the voice of some mysterious spider-robot.  That was Optimus Prime.  "What happened?  Primus!"  It was a stupid question.  One that Cliffjumper wouldn't have dignified with a response, even if he had he been capable of speech.  "Let's get you out of there!"

"Wait!" And that was the voice of Sentinel.

Why wait? Cliffjumper wondered.  Can't he see I'm in trouble here?

"Sentinel?"  It seemed as though Optimus was equally baffled.  "Wait, have you been here?  And you didn't let him down?"

"The idiot was stupid enough to get himself caught in a web.  I figured I'd take this opportunity to use him as bait.  Lure out our enemies.  With any luck, we could even find out where they're hiding."

Optimus sounded every bit as appalled as Cliffjumper felt.  "Are you serious right now?!  He could die!" 

"Well, he should've thought of that before running into a web.  Besides, Cliffjumper isn't like you or me or even Bulkhead.  He's expendable."

And there was that classic Sentinel logic that Cliffjumper oh-so admired: sacrificing the few for the good of the many.  And yet somehow, Cliffjumper liked it less when he was the one being sacrificed.  Was he really so expendable?  What had he done to further their cause in these last days?  Take notes and make chaos?  Primus.

He felt a movement from behind him, followed by wild protests from Sentinel, and then the whole web came down.  Cliffjumper landed on the soft forest floor with an 'umph,' already feeling sensation returning to his extremities.  The energy comprising the web dispersed within nanokliks, leaving no evidence of its existence behind.

"Now look what you did!  That was our only lead!"  Sentinel snapped.  "Do you know how long it will take us to find another one?"

"Do you volunteer to be the one caught?" Optimus retorted.  "Because I refuse to let any more innocent bots die on my watch.  Besides," he raised his arm out, letting the soft raindrops plink off of the metal.  "It's dark, and I feel another storm may be on its way in.  We should probably put off the rest of our search until morning."

"And who put you in charge?!"

The two Primes continued to argue all the way back to camp.  Cliffjumper, however, wasn't listening to them.  He was too consumed within his own thoughts.  Sentinel thought him to be expendable, and it was true.  He couldn't fly or fight like Jetfire or Jetstorm, had no aptitude for the mechanical like Longarm and Bulkhead, he wasn't fast like Blurr, or clever like Jazz, and he didn't have the authority of Optimus.  When it came down to it, Cliffjumper was no more useful than Bumblebee, and that was a fact he couldn't abide.

How then, could he change this?  He had nothing to offer Sentinel - homely, temperamental, weak as he was.  All he had were his skills in observation - dirt on the other mechs.  He could turn in Longarm.  Would that be enough to keep him around?  He found himself doubting.  Besides, he still wasn't certain that he wanted to throw Blurr under  the bus as well.  Not yet.  He'd have to find out soon though.  It seemed his own future depended on his ability to provide Sentinel with something.

Cliffjumper was resolved.  The moment they arrived back at camp, he would approach Blurr, pull him off to the side, and have one long spark-to-spark with him.  That was, if Longarm would even allow it, clingy as he'd been lately.

In the end, Longarm turned out not to be the issue. 

There was much excitement when they arrived back at the camp, and all of it centered around a certain blue bot.

"He did it!  He did it!" Bumblebee gushed the moment they were through the door, attaching himself to Optimus's arm with all the might of a digger claw.

"I'm sorry, what -"

"The Pit do you think you're doing?!" Sentinel finished for Optimus.  "Unhand him this instant and explain!"

Bumblebee didn't bother doing as he was told.  If anything, he held on tighter, a show of defiance.  "Blurr did!  He'd found us!"

The search party fell silent, momentarily unsure of what to say.  Sentinel, at last, broke from the group, stomping across the room, peeling the congratulatory forms of Jazz and Bulkhead away from his suddenly-startled target.  "Is it true?!" he bellowed, in a tone that was so exuberant, it easily could have been mistaken for rage.  Blurr himself withdrew slightly at his words.

"I assume you mean our current accomplishment Sir?  If that's the case, then I can confirm that it is indeed true.  The planet we are on is known as Energoa.  There's nothing particularly exciting about it as far as the galactic neighborhood is concerned.   And it lies in firmly neutral territory.  There's a single mechanical planet in the area, but they're not likely to be friendly.  That said, this planet is mapped, which means that, should we happen to complete some kind of communication device, we will in fact have coordinates to direct our would-be rescuers to!"

Sentinel took a step back, eyes narrowed in an effort to process the information.  At last, he spoke.  "So you're saying we're found?"

"Yes sir!  That is exactly what I'm saying," Blurr replied, speech a bit more precise than was his usual preference.

"That is excellent, Agent Blurr!" said Longarm, striding across the room to offer Blurr a congratulatory hug.  Where had he come from?  Cliffjumper hadn't noticed him upon their arrival, but he couldn't have entered the room without his notice unless he'd been intentionally trying to sneak by.  Cliffjumper didn't like it.

"Uh yeah," Sentinel added.  "Good job, I guess.  But that doesn't mean we're done yet.  Longarm," he barked, pointing a thick finger at the other Prime, who jumped to attention.  "Since you did such a good job with the energon distillery, I nominate you to whip us up a distress beacon.  I'm sure you will do an equally good job with that."

Longarm frowned, taking a step forward.  "With all due respect Sir, it was Bulkhead who fixed the distillery.  I merely helped."

Bulkhead appeared as though he wanted to protest, but he was cut off by Sentinel before he even had the chance.  "Nonsense!  We all know that you were the real brains behind that operation!  What's wrong Longarm?  Don't you want to help us get off this planet?"

Longarm had been backed into a corner with words alone.  Cliffjumper watched as he plastered a fake smile across his face, gave a polite nod, and said, "Of course I do, Sir.  I will get on it right away.  Though you do understand, with the resources at my disposal, something like this will take time."

Sentinel remained unswayed.  "Cannibalize the ship if you have to, just get in contact with someone in the outside world!"

"Of course, Sir."

"This is excellent!" Bumblebee shouted, still excitable from the overcharge lingering within his tiny frame.  "We're going home!"  This time he made a flying tackle for Blurr, who could only stare in blind horror as the little bot attached himself to his frame.  The tension broken by that move, the remainder of the search party made their way into the room, several with words of congratulations for Blurr, who took it all with practiced gratitude.  Cliffjumper knew him well enough to know that the center of attention was the speedster's least favorite place to be, but Cliffjumper was equally content to let him stew.

It was the least he could do to alleviate the pain of his current predicament.  Ultimately, Blurr discovering their location was a good thing; that was uncontestable.  However, Cliffjumper was well-aware that Longarm was the only bot in their lot who had enough mechanical knowledge to have any hope of getting them off-planet any time soon, and that threw a wrench in his plan to be indispensable.  If he couldn't turn in Longarm without jeopardizing his own future, then what hope did he have?

Furthermore, with Longarm hanging around Blurr like a concerned teacher-bot, it was highly unlikely that Cliffjumper would be able to have the conversation that he so needed to have.  The others would disperse sooner-or-later, but he'd have to get rid of Longarm if he was to have any hope of getting through to Blurr.  Hopefully Longarm's new job would keep him distracted enough that Cliffjumper could borrow Blurr for a few hours.  And hopefully Blurr was trustworthy enough to not go blabbing Cliffjumper's fears to Longarm the moment they parted ways.  Perhaps he should rethink this?

But no.  Ultimately, Cliffjumper was convinced of Blurr's goodness - why else would he risk his life to save him?  He had to tell him.  It was his duty to save his savior in return. 

Tomorrow though.  There would be no reaching the bot tonight.

~~~

As it turned out, getting Blurr on his own was not quite as difficult as he'd predicted.  Cliffjumper had been sulking by the door all morning, face buried in a data pad, but optics locked on that vivid blue plating.  It mocked him, bright and lustrous, while the rest of the camp was growing dull with malnutrition.  He couldn't wait to get the guy alone, to chew him out, to wrap his hands around that stupid neck, or to save him from certain damnation . . . or something. 

Blurr himself was crouched beside Longarm Prime, who was sorting through a pile of spare parts for anything that could be Macgyvered into a signal beacon.  He'd tried to walk out several times throughout the morning, in the name of getting some spare parts from his hidey hole, but he'd been stopped each time - by Sentinel, by Jetfire and Jetstorm.  It seemed that Sentinel didn't trust him to come back.  In the end, Longarm relented, and sent Blurr off to get whatever it was he needed.  This was Cliffjumper's chance!

"Hey, hold up for a minute!" he called out, before Blurr had a chance to zip out of the room.  "Let me come with you.  It's dangerous to go alone!"  He could feel a pair of predatory optics on his back, watching his every move with suspicion.  That would be Longarm, no doubt.  He was afraid to turn around and look.

Thankfully, Blurr was a fair bit more reasonable than his companion.  "Yes, I suppose that is a good idea.  Let's go together."  He offered a winning smile, just as fake as all of his smiles had been lately, save for when he was gazing upon Longarm's stocky little frame.  Cliffjumper had to resist the urge to recoil in disgust.

He was honestly surprised that Longarm hadn't objected to his presence, at least verbally.  Paranoia told him that he was walking straight into some kind of trap, but surely Blurr wouldn't do that to him.  He was loyal and dutiful to a fault.  He would never turn on his own teammates.  Still, Cliffjumper kept his guard up, just in case.

"Try to keep up though," Blurr said from a few paces ahead.  "I'd like to make this quick."

Cliffjumper grunted, indignant.  Just because he wasn't a speed demon like Blurr, didn't mean he was slow!  He transformed to alt mode and took off at full speed, while Blurr glided behind him, effortless.  Talking while driving at such high speeds was too difficult for Cliffjumper to manage, at least with so many obstacles in his way.  He'd have to wait until they arrived at their destination before he got around to any meaningful conversation.  That was fine.  Blurr couldn't run away so easily if he was trapped in a cave.

At Cliffjumper's slower pace, they were en route for the duration of the next cycle, gradually slowing down as Cliffjumper's poor engine struggled to remain at top speed.  He rolled out of the transformation at the cave's entrance, coughing and sputtering, and generally feeling worse than he ever had in his life.  Damn that precious little speedster!  His fans hadn't even kicked on yet.

Blurr didn't enter the cave, choosing instead to stand tall and look down on Cliffjumper, judging.  Cliffjumper hated him for it.  "W-what are you waiting for?" Cliffjumper panted.  "Aren't we going in?"

"I suppose we could do that if you really want to, but I thought that you'd like to catch your breath first, and maybe give your engine a chance to cool down.  How are we suppose to engage in whatever serious conversation you've got planned if you're too busy being hunched over and struggling to cycle air through your systems?  That seems like a horrible way to hold a conversation, least of all for how very slow it will be.  You'll forgive my impatience, of course.  I'd most like to get this over with so that I can get back to helping Longarm Prime get us off the island.  I'm sure you understand."

Blurr was mocking him now!  He knew that Cliffjumper had trouble understanding him when the babbling began, and yet here he was, going on and on and on, when poor Cliffjumper barely had the energy to parse bots speaking at normal speeds.  He shot Blurr a loathsome glare, his every intention conveyed in one look.

Blurr folded his arms and tapped his toe piece with a sigh.  When he spoke again, it was with slow, stilted words, that even a protoform could understand.  "A few kliks.  We'll wait out here.  Catch your breath.  Then we'll talk."

It all felt rather condescending, but Cliffjumper couldn't deny that it helped.  He did as he was told, allowing the fresh, cool air of the damp forest to flow through his vents.  It felt good.  It had been a long time since he'd worked his engine so hard.  Life in an office had made him soft, a fact that he met with resent.  Perhaps if he performed well out here - turned in a treacherous Autobot, for instance - he would at last be promoted to the field, and leave the humiliating secretarial work behind.

He stood tall, nodding to Blurr before stepping into the cave.

"So?" said Blurr as they made their way down the dark tunnels, lit only by their own biolights.

"So . . ." Cliffjumper drew out, trying to figure out how he wanted to begin.  "You and Longarm, eh?"

He could hear Blurr's footsteps fumble and stop behind him.  He didn't pause in his own stride.  Blurr could catch up with no effort at all.  And so he did.

"Yes, me and Longarm.  I suppose it's not much of a secret, now is it?  But I assure you, it's a recent thing!"

"How recent?" Cliffjumper asked, mostly because it seemed the most reasonable question to ask next.  He could perform interrogations at a more-or-less acceptable level, but Cliffjumper was not a bot known for his subtlety.  How was he supposed to break it to Blurr that his significant other was probably a lying murderer?  Blurr would know how to do it.  And Jazz would too.  It was just one more thing he was no good for.

"A few solar cycles maybe.  It's a little complicated.  But I'd say I first began to really reciprocate his feelings the day that Sentinel attacked me and Prowl and Bumblebee."

"Ah."  Now what?  Blurr was nice enough to solve this problem for him.

"You didn't say anything at the trial.  You knew I wasn't telling the truth, but you didn't call me out.  I'm curious as to why."

Was he the bot under interrogation now?  This was unacceptable!  "I wasn't trying to protect you, if that's what you think!"  Not exactly true, but he was too busy being offended to care. 

"I didn't say that you were.  But -"

Cliffjumper didn't care to let Blurr finish  with his protest.  "And I the real question is, why did you say those things when you knew I might call you out?"

Blurr had caught up by now, long legs taking short steps to keep pace with Cliffjumper.  He watched Cliffjumper with a hard frown, all pretense of friendliness dropped.  "You caught me.  It was a risky thing to do, but I hedged my bets on you not telling."

"Why?" Cliffjumper pushed, almost literally, as his rage made him misstep into Blurr's path.  Blurr easily strode around him.

"It was the way you spoke to me after Sentinel's attack.  You apologized to me.  I couldn't figure out why at the time, but I figure you have some kind of soft spot for me somewhere beneath all of that gruff posturing.  I don't know if it's because I saved your life, or if it's something else, but I figured you wouldn't be willing to put me at risk without settling things between us first."

It was Cliffjumper who stopped dead in his tracks this time.  Damn the little bastard!  He was right - had read Cliffjumper's actions like a book, and that made him angry.  "You're wrong!" he snarled, jogging to catch up.  "Why would I care about a lying snake like you?!"

It was to Cliffjumper's disheartenment (and relief) that Blurr merely looked confused by his words, rather than offended.  "Lying snake?  Why would you call me such a thing?  Is this about the energon?  Because I've already apologized for that!"

Cliffjumper was beginning to see red.  Sure, he cared about Blurr.  He'd admit to that (at least to himself).  But there were a few things that were just plain unacceptable.  The energon situation was one of them.  "Apologized!?  If you were really sorry, you would have done something by now!"

"There hasn't really been an opportunity since you -"

"Stop lying!"  He whirled mid step, cutting Blurr off and lunging forward head first, in a half-hearted effort to headbutt that smug snake right in his soft torso.  Blurr dodged easily, planting himself several feet away, in case Cliffjumper should try such a stunt again.  This time, he didn't bother speaking, hanging his head in shame.

"You've had plenty of time!  YOU have had plenty of time to run back here, grab some energon, and run back to camp!  Have you SEEN the rest of us?!  It's not gonna be long before someone else notices how very shiny you are - how pretty, and bright your finish is!  Primus Blurr, why don't you think of these things?!  What the frag has he been saying you to make you act like such an idiot?!"

Blurr's head snapped up, his optics narrowing in threat, but he made no move to attack.  He stepped forward, slowly, holding out a placating hand.  "We'll bring some back with us now.  We're here, after all.  It wouldn't be right not to."

Cliffjumper was not to be undone, however.  "You're sure he won't be cross?  Sure he doesn't need all of this for some grand scheme of his?!"

Blurr stopped, folding his arms, face caught in a thoughtful glower.  "Why do you keep talking about Longarm like that?"

"I don't know what you mean," Cliffjumper said, spinning around and stalking off down the hall.  He got a mere two steps before Blurr was in front of him, cutting off his path.  At last, Cliffjumper felt real fear.  Blurr was stronger, worlds faster, and better-trained than Cliffjumper could ever hope to be.  If he'd misjudged his character - if Blurr really was Longarm's lapdog, then he could kill Cliffjumper before he even saw it coming.  Cliffjumper stumbled backwards, falling to the ground in a panicked effort to escape.

 "Stay away from me!" he screamed, scrambling away from Blurr.  The bot didn't follow.  Instead, his optics softened, the anger left his stance.  He was still frowning, but it was a frown of concern now.

"Cliffjumper?  Are you all right?"

"Don't hurt me!" he covered his helm with his arms, trying to get the threat out of his sight.  Was it any wonder Sentinel thought him expendable?  He was useless!  Cowering at the first hint of danger.  He'd never be more than a secretary  - never have the glory of fighting Decepticons, never find a purpose.

He felt a gentle EM field brush against his own, calm and concerned.  He lowered his arms, allowing himself to see again, only to find Blurr crouching mere feet away, arms folded across his knees, and optic ridges knit with worry.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Cliffjumper.  Why would I want to?  You can be an obnoxious glitch sometimes, but we're both Autobots.  And we're teammates to boot!  You can say whatever you want to me.  I promise, you don't have to worry about a thing."

Once again, Blurr was right.  How could he be so stupid to think that Blurr, of all bots, would try to kill him?  It was downright nonsensical!  He nodded, wiping at the lubricants that were wetting  his cheeks.  He must have sprung an optical leak in his panic.  How embarrassing.

"Yeah, I'm sorry.  I'm an idiot."  He didn't feel much like standing right now.  Without getting up, he turned himself around to better face Blurr, and pushed himself backwards, so that he was leaning on a cave wall.  It felt comfortable, safe even.  He could see why Blurr liked this place so much.

Blurr, in an effort to make a better conversation space, mirrored his action, leaning himself against the opposite wall, one long leg pulled up to his chest.

"So, why don't you tell me your issue with Longarm?" he said, words slow and tone gentle.

Cliffjumper shook his head, averting his eyes.  He knew that he was safe, but his processor still didn't want to believe that Blurr wouldn't snap the moment Cliffjumper said something he didn't like.  It's what he would have done, after all.  "He's bad news, Blurr.  And he's changed you.  I don't like it!"

"Changed me?  I'm not any different than I was before," he laughed, though it was a bit hollow.  For once, Blurr was wrong, and that made Cliffjumper smile.

"You are though.  The Blurr who saved my life wouldn't have thought twice about sharing those energon rations with his starving companions the moment he found them.  But Blurr with Longarm Prime is an entirely different creature than Blurr without him."  He could feel Blurr's EM field tense from across the path, and he cut himself off, afraid to keep going.

"What do you mean?" Blurr asked, the hesitancy in his voice completely alien to Cliffjumper.

"Take the trial for instance.  You have to know him just as well as I do.  Longarm was acting more suspicious than anyone.  The way he suddenly latched onto Prowl as a target, the fear in his optics when it was implied that he had killed Ratchet - that was the look of a guilty mech, Blurr.  And you know this!  I have no doubt that you saw all of the same things that I did, but still, you sat there and lied for him, at the risk of sacrificing a probably innocent bot.  The Blurr I've worked with for vorns never would have done something like that."

Blurr was fidgeting now, looking very pointedly at his hands.  "Longarm was afraid.  He knew his actions appeared guilty.  He knew that if Prowl was proven innocent, then the evidence would point to him as the guilty target."

Cliffjumper laughed at that.  "And you don't think that might be because he was guilty?!  Primus Blurr, what has he done to you?"

Blurr glared at that, and again, Cliffjumper withdrew, terrified.  The expression was short-lived however, as Blurr turned his attention away.  "Longarm never would have done that."

"Done what?  Killed a mech?  Are you telling me you seriously believe that Longarm would never hurt even an ant-droid for any reason?"

Blurr had no response to this.  In fact, he appeared to be shaking now; Cliffjumper could hear the soft rattle of thin plating against protoform.  Blurr was still taking this better than he might have been.

"Are you okay, Blurr?  I know you don't want to hear it, but -"

This time, it was he who was cut off, by a distressed Blurr speaking at full speed.  Cliffjumper struggled to keep up.

"I know that he's suspicious!  I know what it looks like!  I know how plausible it is!  Pit, I had thought him guilty for awhile too, I really had!  And maybe he was guilty!  Maybe he did kill Ratchet, and yes!  That's unforgivable!  But I don't think he did, and even if he had, I don't know if I even care anymore!  You keep on blaming the changes I've gone through on Longarm - 'Longarm's fed you lies!  Longarm's corrupted you!  What has Longarm done to you?!'  But you've not once stopped to think that maybe Longarm isn't the issue here!

"Yes, he's part of it, I won't deny.  Yes, he keeps bringing me out here, away from the rest of you, treating me with kindness and love and patience and care!  He cares about me!  If you claim to know him at all, then surely you can see that!  Maybe I don't agree with everything he's done, but it's a good deal more than I've gotten from any of you!  When the civilians aren't out to make me feel useless, Sentinel's out to make me feel used, when he's not outright trying to kill me, and you!  I don't even know what to make of you! 

"You're in here now, trying to make like you care about me, and my well-being, but you're almost as bad as Sentinel!  You invite me in, only to push me away again, accuse me of things I've never done, threaten me, try to assault me, and then have the audacity to say that the one bot of the lot of you that cares whether I live or die is - what, using me?  Hurting me?  Changing me for the worse?  It's all nonsense, and I won't hear another word of it!"

He ceased in his tirade, leaning forward with fire in his optics, fingers digging into the ground, and fans roaring.  Cliffjumper never could have understood the entirety of it, but he understood the gist, and a few phrases had stood out to him.

"The only bot who cares about you?" he scoffed.  "What self-absorbed rubbish!  I care!  Optimus cares, and Jazz too!  And probably Bumblebee and Bulkhead, and maybe even Jetfire and Jetstorm!  Don't put this on us!  Pit, you're  the one who doesn't care who lives and dies!  Otherwise, you would have never taken Longarm's side over Prowl's!"  Cliffjumper's own fans kicked on,  to cool the hot rage that flowed through his system.

Blurr had nothing to say to that.  He collapsed in on himself, drawing both knees to his chest and burying his face in them.  "Leave me alone."

Cliffjumper wasn't finished just yet.  "Pit, Blurr!  Stop acting like a selfish protoform for a klik and be the Elite Guardsmech you're supposed to be!  Longarm is bad news, and if you don't report him, I will."  He turned to stalk off, painfully aware that he probably should not have said those last words.  It was never wise to threaten a bot who could kill in a fraction of a nano-klik.  But it wasn't with an energy blade that Blurr stopped him, but with words.

"You utter hypocrite," he muttered, bits of static breaking up his speech.  Had he shorted his vocalizer?

"What did you say?" Cliffjumper turned slowly to face Blurr, who was still on the ground.

"I called you a hypocrite.  You get on my case for supporting a mech who might have killed someone.  But here you are, about to tattle to Sentinel  'I-tried-to-murder-two-mechs-for-daring-to -oppose-my-tyranny' Prime!  You claim to care about me, and the group, but you throw your support behind a mech who would've had me dead, had Longarm not intervened.  And Bumblebee, and Prowl!  Pit, when I was trying to figure out who could've been behind Ratchet's murder, Sentinel was the only other mech with a motive. 

"I'm not the only one this island's changed.  Not one of us is the mech we were when we got here, but Sentinel's suffered the worst change of all!  He's mere incompetence away from being a murderer himself, Cliffjumper.  Can't you see that?"

Cliffjumper found his thoughts drifting back to the previous night, stranded in that web, certain he would die, while Sentinel hid in the bushes andwatched him.  Sentinel would've had him dead just as soon as Bumblebee and Prowl and Blurr.  That was a good third of their group, and those numbers didn't sit well with Cliffjumper. 

"At least he's honest about his evil," he protested, though his fire had been snuffed.

Blurr was having none of it.  "Is that so?  Then what is it he's so keen to hide on that computer of his?  Plans that would be beneficial to Autobot-kind?  I doubt it."

 Cliffjumper didn't respond, and Blurr didn't bother to press the issue.  The argument was over, and both bots had lost.  What had Cliffjumper accomplished?  Blurr wasn't about to turn on Longarm, and even worse, he'd likely made an enemy - not something to have on an island where everyone was two misplaced words away from snapping.

The worst part was, even after all of that, he still couldn't bring himself to hate Blurr.  He didn't want him dead, didn't want to hurt him, anddefinitely didn't want to turn him in.  He was no better off than before, though perhaps a bit more angry.  He clasped his own helm tightly between his hands with a strangled grunt, his plating shaking.

"Cliffjumper?" came Blurr's voice, barely a squeak.

"Fine, I guess you're right.  As usual.  What more do you want?"

Blurr had nothing to say to that.  Of course he didn't!  Since when did he have anything to say to Cliffjumper?  Cliffjumper wasn't Longarm.  Cliffjumper was irrelevant.  Cliffjumper was useless.  How had this happened? 

He supposed he could just ask.

"Blurr?" he said, breaking the silence that had followed his last outburst.  He didn't bother to face the mech.  "Why did you stop answering my comms?"

He felt confusion cross the EM field at his back.  "What are you talking about?"

"I thought you'd say that.  I've been trying to get an answer out of you ever since that night you disappeared, and you always pretend to not know what I'm talking about.  Do I really mean so little to you?"

"I'm not lying," Blurr said, voice still small.  "I never received any comms from you that night, and I haven't received any comms since.  Why would I lie about something like that?"

Cliffjumper had no answer.

"Look, just go on ahead if you want to," Blurr continued, hastily changing the subject.  "I'll grab the tools Longarm wanted and some extra energon rations and get back to base.  We're just wasting time here arguing about nothing.  And I'm tired.  I don't want to fight anymore, and I won't tell Longarm about this, if you're afraid of that.  Just please, go."

Cliffjumper didn't need to be told twice.  The last place he wanted to be right now was with that infuriating blue bot.  He stumbled from the cave dazed and dizzy.  Not once did he look back.

~~~

Blurr had beat him home.  He knew, for the first thing to greet Cliffjumper upon his return, was a small team of bots sitting around the crater and drinking energon freely - energon that hadn't been there before.  So he'd kept his word.  Good for him.  Cliffjumper, however, was in no mood to socialize.  He passed the bots by, ignoring their offer to join them out on a nature hike, or whatever, and entered the ship.

No one was there.

He was glad, mostly.  The last thing he wanted was to face Longarm after that earlier disaster.  Blurr had promised not to tell, but Longarm was not a stupid mech.  He'd figure out on his own easily enough, and Cliffjumper wanted to make sure he was surrounded by a team of highly-capable Elite Guardsmechs when he did. 

On the other hand, he was left wondering how Longarm had found time to slip away after Sentinel's earlier insistence that he stick around and do his job.  Come to think of it, Sentinel's absence was equally peculiar, as was Optimus's.  Where had everyone gone?

And what did it even matter?  For the first time in what had felt like ages, he was truly alone.  It was a wonderful feeling.  His legs steered him on auto-pilot to the coveted recharge slab.  He climbed atop its beckoning surface, and sprawled out, small body not even taking half of the space.  It felt good. 

He could imagine lying there for cycles, letting the depths of recharge take him far away from this hellish island and its unpleasant company and all of his woes.  Sentinel, of course, would be displeased to find Cliffjumper asleep on his berth.  Cliffjumper rolled to his side with a sigh, in an effort to make himself less comfortable.

That's when he saw it.

The computer sat but feet away, unguarded.  Blurr's earlier words came back to him.  What was Sentinel hiding on that thing?  He'd gotten so very frightened when Longarm had brought it up at the trial.  What could possibly be on there that was worse than attempted murder?

Curiosity was his master now.  He rose from the comfort of the recharge slab and walked, trance-like to the computer, not bothering to take a seat.  He hit a button on the keyboard to wake the thing up.

It was locked of course. 

No matter.  He was secretary to the Prime of the Intelligence Division.  Damned if he hadn't picked up a trick or two along the way.  He jacked into the machine's interface port, decrypting the password with ease.

_Elita-1_

Now why did that sound familiar?  And did it really matter?  He was in!  He had access to his boss's innermost secrets.  It was time to find out if he was truly a mech worth following.

A file was already open on the desktop:  Captain's Log.

Well, wasn't that pretentious?  He began reading.

_"Solar Cycle: 15.  Agent Blurb has discovered our location within the galaxy.  Looks like we're on some backwards nowhere planet called 'Energoa,' or something.  Whatever.  I've got Longarm busy making a signal beacon.  With any luck we'll be home before the decacycle is over . . ._

_"I really should re-evaluate Agent Blurr's usefulness.  That's twice today he's proven his worth.  First with the planet thing, and now with this cache of energon he says he came across in the woods.  If he found some, then surely there's more, and I'm gonna be the one to discover it!"_

So that explained where everyone had gone.  Hopefully their quest would keep them out for awhile.  Cliffjumper scrolled back to an earlier day.

_"Solar Cycle: 14.  The terrorist was found not guilty.  Of course.  I guess I can't really complain, as I was the one who voted him so.  Agent Jazz and that idiot Optimus just happened to come in with the exact right information at the exact right time.  We're not alone on the island.  Something is out there, stealing our memories and killing our mechs.  And I think I might know who it is!_

_"On the bright side, this means that I didn't kill Ratchet, like I'd feared.  Optimus had holes in his memory too.  But there's more to it than that.  I've been having these dreams about Archa Seven lately, and I think my subconscious is trying to fill in the blanks, all the more confirmed by the fact that our enemies' weapon of choice is a bunch of spider webs.  I fear the past is coming back to haunt us.  Well I'm not gonna let it get me!"_

The next few entries continued on in a manner that served to explain much of Sentinel's behavior over the past several days.  He'd figured out early on that his memories of the night of the murder had been taken, and much like Longarm, had realized that someone else might place the blame on him.  Also like Longarm, he'd chosen to let Prowl take the fall for his actions.  It was just one more thing Blurr was right about.  Longarm and Sentinel were not so different after all.  He turned back, to the first entry.

_"Solar Cycle: 1.  We've crash-landed on an organic planet, spared from fiery death by Optimus's stupid panic room.  Nobody knows what happened yet - nobody but me and mine.  And Primus help me, I fear I've made the biggest mistake of my life -_

There was a jerk at his shoulder, and Cliffjumper saw sparks, as his interface cable was ripped from the socket, as he was thrown into the opposite wall by a furious Sentinel.

"What are you doing?!" he roared, advancing with murder in his optics.  Cliffjumper had been wrong about before - about the terror he'd felt when he thought Blurr may kill him.  That was nothing.  Standing here now, cowering as Sentinel stormed closer, fear and fire and hatred emanating from his being, Cliffjumper knew true fear.

"I'm sorry!  I was just -"

"How much did you see?!" the Prime bellowed, backhanding the small bot across the room.

Of course he'd be angry.  Even a protoform got upset when someone read their diary.  But the average protoform didn't keep incriminating information on their personal logs.  And the average protoform didn't have a hand in destroying a ship filled to the brim with their own kinsmen.

It was senseless to argue on his own behalf.  Sentinel had already tried to kill Bumblebee for speaking with a mech he knew to be innocent, Blurr for daring to try and stop him, Prowl for being convenient.  Cliffjumper, who had slighted this bot in the worst possible way, had no chance.  He transformed into his alt mode and zipped off at full speed, with Sentinel in hot pursuit.

He needed help, needed to call someone.  But everyone was gone, presumably scattered across the island on a stupid nature walk, or looking for energon.  It would take far too long for anyone to find him.  Well, there was one.

Without a moment's hesitation, he commed Blurr.  There was no answer.  He'd leave another message, and hope this one got through.  "Blurr, you've gotta help me!  Primus, Sentinel's trying to kill me!  It was him!  He put the bombs in the ship!  Blurr please, answer your fragging comm!  I'M BEGGING YOU!"

He hung up.  This was pointless.  Blurr hadn't answered his comms since that night all those days ago - had let Cliffjumper pour his whole, stupid spark out in message, after message, after message, begging him to come back to base.  If he hadn't responded then, why would he respond now?  Cliffjumper wasn't Longarm, and therefore -

He was an idiot!  An idiot and an asshole, and if he survived this encounter, he'd never stop apologizing to Blurr.  How had he forgotten?!  When Blurr had been calling Longarm Prime several times a day, every message had been forwarded straight from Longarm's comm, to Cliffjjumper's!  And then, once  he'd at last gotten sick of the onslaught, he'd blocked Blurr's comm line. 

Stupid!  Stupid!  Stupid!

He made a sharp turn, as a moment's distraction sent him nearly crashing into a tree.  Instead, his change in direction found him crashing straight into the arms of Jetfire.  Frag!  He had to act fast!

With a single thought, he unblocked the line, allowing the dam to break, and every message he'd sent out to that stupid bot in the past seven solar cycles burst forth.  There was no way Blurr wouldn't notice that!  He only hoped that he would get here fast enough.

_"Blurr?  Are you there?  You never came back last night, and we're all worried about you.  Please give me a call, yeah?"_

Jetfire grasped his left arm tight, and he struggled all the while, kicking and screaming, using his servos and head and everything else at his disposal to fend off the jet's superior strength.  It wasn't enough.  Jetfire didn't relinquish his grip, and it didn't take long for Jetstorm to take his other arm, the two of them hoisting his small body off the ground.

_"Blurr?  Are you all right?  It's been nearly a cycle now!  Please call me back!  I know you're still injured, and the last thing I want is to imagine you lying unconscious in a ditch somewhere . . . but I know you're better than that!  You're fine!  Of course you are!  You're Blurr, after all! . . . Please hurry."_

"I am being sorry, Cliffjumper," Jetstorm whispered in his ear.  "But Sentinel is the Autobot cause.  We cannot be saying 'no' to him.  We are not being Decepticons."

"What are you -" Cliffjumper began, but his words were cut off as Sentinel drove onto the scene, transforming back to bot mode in one dramatic motion, and stalking forward with a grin of pure madness.

"Well, would you look at what the jets dragged in?"

Cliffjumper began to flail once more, Optics blown wide with panic.  "Sir, I'm sorry!" he begged.  "I promise, I won't tell anyone what I saw!  Please!  You know me!  I'm more loyal than anyone!"

_"Blurr!  Please, answer me!  We're worried sick about you over here!  I'm afraid Sentinel's about to do something drastic.  You know how he gets, sometimes . . . Please, just tell me you're all right."_

Sentinel leaned in close; Cliffjumper could feel the hot air released from his vents.  "And why should I believe you?  Once Intel, always Intel, am I right?"

"What? No!  No, I swear -"

Sentinel cut him off with a sharp slap.  "You're spying on me for Longarm Prime!  Don't deny it!"  He stepped away, pacing back and forth in front of Cliffjumper, like a cat-bot ready to pounce.  "I never trusted him - not from the moment he walked through the doors of the Metroplex!  He was too sweet, too obedient, too perfect!  Always working, but never getting anything important done!  What kind of nonsense is that?  I guess I was right to test him after all!  Look at this!"

Cliffjumper tried again, hoping to buy some more time.  "I promise, I don't work for Longarm!  I feel the same as you!  I've got evidence against him!  Please, you have to believe me!" 

This time, it was the sound of Sentinel pulling his lance that shut him up.

_"Is this something I've done?!  Are you ignoring me?!  Why won't you answer me?!  I'm sorry!  I was an aft yesterday, you know that's me!  I say things sometimes when I'm upset, but I don't mean them!  I lied when I said we weren't friends.  The truth is, I like you a whole lot!  You're a wonderful bot, Blurr!  So caring and passionate and loyal - always wanting to do the right thing!  I never meant to hurt you, and I'll never be able to live with myself knowing that you could be dead out there, and I'm in-part to blame.  Oh Primus, please just answer!"_

He sure loved to talk, didn't he?  How many of these messages had he sent?  And how long would it take for Blurr to listen to them all?  Would he block them out after the first few?  Cliffjumper was becoming increasingly aware of the hopelessness of his own position.

Appealing to Sentinel was pointless, but maybe the twins could be swayed?  "Jetfire, Jetstorm!  See reason!  Sentinel's lost his mind!  No leader should turn his weapon on his own underlings!  No Autobot leader at least!  You're afraid of being called Decepticons, but the most Decepticon-like of all the bots here is Sentinel Prime!"

He'd been wrong to try them.  Jetstorm offered a sharp knee to his side, causing his legs to give out.  He stopped struggling, in too much pain to move.

"Don't you be fooling me with your words, traitor!" he spat, even as Jetfire watched with concern in his optics.  "Sentinel Prime is not being a Decepticon!"

_"C'mon!  I'm sorry for the things I said yesterday!  I'll make it up to you, I promise!  Just answer me!"_

Cliffjumper let out a weak groan, hanging limply between the Jet Twins' arms as Sentinel strode forward, brandishing his lance.  This was it.  No one was coming to save him now.

"Sentinel," he begged, one last time.  "Please."

_"Blurr, you've gotta help me!  Primus, Sentinel's trying to kill me!  It was him!  He put the bombs in the ship!  Blurr please, answer your fragging comm!  I'M BEGGING YOU!"_

The lance pierced his spark chamber in one quick blow, throwing his head and shoulders forward around it.  He let out a soft gurgle at the action, already feeling the energon drooling from his mouth, but the sound was more from surprise than pain.  It was actually amazing how little it hurt at all.  Just a sharp sting, as armored plating was crushed, as his body was punctured, as the lance burst right out the other side.  But none of that mattered to Cliffjumper, because distantly he could hear a voice, whispered directly into his audial, speaking fast, half through frantic frenzy, half through his own glitch.

_"Ciffjumper, are you all right?  I've locked onto your distress signal, and I'm on my way!  Please, just hang on for a little longer!"_

Blurr was coming for him.  It made him happy for some reason, though he couldn't remember why.  He was sure it would come to him eventually; all he needed was a moment's rest.  With a smile on his face, he let himself succumb to the dark clouds overtaking his vision.  Everything would be all right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I've already failed my estimate. Perspectives,man.
> 
> I didn't post this at thre in the morning this time. This time I posted it at FIVE in the morning! I'm good at life! : D
> 
> Poor Cliffjumper.


	25. Justice/Vengeance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blurr races onto the scene to save the day, and right into Sentinel's awaiting clutches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: impending violence this way.

Sentinel withdrew his lance, relishing in the soft thud the snitch's body made as it connected with the ground, its once brilliant red finish, fading away to a lifeless grey.  He'd trusted the little guy, let him in close, allowed him to share in a trivial secret or two!  And this was how his kindness had been repaid - unwarranted snooping!  Any affection he might have held for his little ex-secretary had vanished the very moment he caught him jacked into  _Sentinel's_  computer, reading  _Sentinel's_  log!  He'd only brought this fate upon himself.

"Oh Primus above! What we be doing?!" one of the twins shrieked - probably Jetfire, but who really cared?  They were pretty much the same bot anyway.

"What are you whining about now?"  He heaved a put-upon sigh, turning his attention from the pretty corpse to his irritating compatriot.

"That is Cliffjumper being dead!" the jet sobbed, pointing at the lifeless husk on the ground.  Glowing pink energon seeped from his gaping chest, saturating the earth below, enough-so to paint the tips of Sentinel's pedes in that incriminating color.  Gross.

"Yes, I'm glad to see that your optical sensors are still functioning.  Of course he's dead!  What did you think we were doing?!"

Jetfire withdrew, unconsciously stepping towards his brother, who appeared to be equally distressed, but at least had the good sense to keep his mouth shut.  He laid a gentle hand on Jetfire's  shoulder, granting him the courage to speak.

"I just - I - why are we having to kill other Autobots?"

It took most of Sentinel's willpower not to roll his eyes.  The twins were young still, naive.  It was an infuriating aspect of their personalities, but he usually knocked sense into their heads with curt insults and threats.  Sometimes, however, he found that kindness was the best instructor. 

Sentinel stepped over the body, closer to the twins, and clapped each on the shoulder in tandem, a world-wise smile breaking out on his face.  "I know we've been teaching you that Autobots are good and Decepticons evil."

"Yes," Jetfire squeaked, warily watching the hand, as Jetstorm barked, "Of course," simultaneously.

"But there's a teensy bit more to it than that.  It's horrible, I know, but there are some Autobots out there too that are almost as bad as any Decepticon."

The twins stared at him, slack-jawed.  He was getting his point across.  Good.  He continued.

"Criminals, Decepticon sympathizers, enemy spies that disgrace our badge - Cliffjumper was that last one."

Jetfire looked down to the body.  "Cliffjumper was being a Decepticon?"

"He was spying on me for Longarm.  Would a good, righteous Autobot do that?"

It took a moment for Jetfire to respond.  No doubt his stunted processor was having difficulty grasping the truth.  At last though, he nodded, and with a small voice, said, "I understand.  We were to killing Cliffjumper because he was spying on Sentinel Prime Sir, because he was not an Autobot, but a Decepticon."

"Exactly," Sentinel confirmed, giving Jetfire a pat on the helm.  He was always so proud when the twins learned something new from him.

"But Sir?" And now it was Jetstorm's turn to pester.

"What?" Sentinel snapped back.  Jetstorm flinched away beneath the harsh tone, which only enhance his disgust.

"Are we to be having another trial?" the blue bot said, trying his hardest to keep his voice strong.

"A trial?" What a stupid question.  Sentinel was rapidly losing patience with these twins.  "What for?"

"Cliffjumper was being murdered, Sir.  By us."

Sentinel's grip on Jetstorm's shoulder grew harsh, enough so to dent the thick metal.  The idiot probably didn't even feel it.

"I'm sorry Sir!" he cried out.  "I am not any more questioning you!"

Though barely cognizant of the apology, Sentinel relinquished his hold, which Jetstorm acknowledged with a relieved sigh.  "We didn't do anything wrong," he affirmed.  "There's no need to worry your pretty little heads about it."

"What about Optimus Prime Sir?  And Longarm Prime too?  Might they -" he cut himself off at Sentinel's stern look.  He was right though.  Longarm would no doubt flip the situation on its head, citing Sentinel as the criminal, rather than a victim of Decepticon schemes, and naive little Optimus would lap it right up.  The bot simply didn't understand the necessity of nipping problems in the bud.  Simpleton.  He pasted his most winning smile on his face, and gave Jetfire another pat, heedless of the way the bot winced beneath his servo.

"We don't have to take the blame at all.  Those nasty spiders are still on the island.  It was  _they_  who killed Cliffjumper, not us!"

The twins still didn't seem convinced.  What didn't they understand?  It wasn't rocket science!

"Will Longarm Prime be doing of the autopsy again?" Jetstorm at last ventured.

Sentinel's spark froze.  It wasn't hard to see how Cliffjumper had died; he'd be right back at square one - removed from power, and possibly dead if Longarm got his way.  Pit, they'd  _all_  be dead if Longarm got his way.  Why could no one else  _see_  it?

He needed a new plan.

"All right then!  You're so smart, go make sure that he never finds out."

"I'm sorry?"  Jetstorm tilted his head, a dumb look on his face.  Did Sentinel have to hold their hands through  _everything_?

"Dump the body.  It's not that hard.  Just . . . throw it in the ocean or whatever.  There!  Problem solved!"

Again, the twins were slow to process the information, but once they did, identical grins of delight broke out on each of their faces.  "Ohhh!" they said in unison.

"We will be doing just that, then!" said Jetstorm.  "Come brother!  We will fly!"  With no great difficulty, the jet stooped down, and scooped the corpse into his arms, before transforming and taking off into the late afternoon sky.

"Wait for me, brother!" Jetfire called after him, but he didn't budge from his position.  His creepy amber optics remained fixed on Sentinel for much too long, before he finally offered an earnest salute, and said, "We are being back in kliks, Sir!"

"Yeah, yeah.  Just go." 

Satisfied with his permission from Sentinel, Jetfire too transformed, and followed his brother out of sight.  At last, Sentinel was alone. 

In retrospect, he probably shouldn't have let the twins out of his sight.  He wasn't afraid of the spiders or whatever.  He was an excellent fighter, sub-commander of the Elite Guard, and knew exactly what to expect.  There was nothing a mysterious enemy that had stolen his memories already on multiple occasions could do to hurt him. 

On the other hand, the fact that he was standing alone in the middle of the woods, chassis painted pink with drying energon, made him look all the more suspicious when Blurr came barreling into the clearing. 

Sentinel didn't know how Blurr had known to come here, and he didn't know how much Blurr knew about the current situation.  What he did know, was that Blurr was Longarm Prime's closest confidant, and that his optics were currently locked onto a patch of energon-saturated dirt.

"Agent Blurr.  Funny meeting you here."

The acknowledgement seemed to break Blurr from whatever trance he was in.  He tore his optics away from that incriminating puddle, attention focused wholly on Sentinel, studying him with a most eerie detachment.  Sentinel didn't like it.

"You got a problem?"

He hadn't seen Blurr move; his processor was simply too slow to keep up with that glitched little slagheap.  What he  _could_  perceive, was the sensation of flying through the air, faster than he had thought possible, followed immediately by an intense pain shooting from his back through his wheels and down to his fingertips.  The sharp crack of a collapsing tree came some time later.

He'd been kicked, he could feel the point in his torso plating, just beneath his grille.  Moreover, he'd been kicked with such force, that he'd gone flying straight across the clearing, stopped only by the tree that now lay broken on the ground.  From some fifty feet away, Blurr stood, stance wide, plating flared, and optics glowing bright - the body language of a bot ready to kill. 

_This could be bad._

Sentinel clambered to his feet, redeploying his lance, and summoning his shield, just in case.  He wasn't  _too_  worried.  His armor was just about as strong as could be found among the Autobots.  Blurr, on the other  hand, had the  _lowest_  tier armor class, thin and light, for maximum speed.  Primus, half of the mech was exposed protoform!  Even at supersonic speeds, he'd barely managed to put a dent in Sentinel's plating.  Still, it was better safe than sorry.

To match Sentinel's new arsenal, Blurr deployed his own energy saw, and lunged again.

Sentinel's lance was knocked from his hands immediately, and sent flying off into the trees.  His shield fared a little better.  Speedy as Blurr was, he couldn't break the shield, and Sentinel's grip was too sturdy to wrench it from his grasp.  Unfortunately, his difficulty in disarming Sentinel failed to dissuade the little nuisance.  Jagged blades of concentrated heat and energy nicked his plating, over and over and over again.  Blurr didn't have the strength to get in any damaging blows, but the relentless high-speed assault was wearing Sentinel down.  If it didn't stop soon, Blurr very well might annoy him to death.

Sentinel found it all to be rather demeaning as well as embarrassing.  Sentinel was a Prime!  He was not about to be defeated by such a small and useless mech!  It was time to show that delicate creature who was boss!  Blurr was moving so fast, Sentinel was willing to bet that he'd have difficulty with changing course should a sudden blow come his way.  With all of his might, he thrust forward, hoping to disrupt Blurr's balance.

Instead, he found that his thrust-out arm allowed Blurr the opportunity he needed to knock Sentinel's shield from his servos, wherein it promptly joined his lance somewhere in the nearby woods.  Sentinel was on his back, dangerous saw blades pressed against his throat before he'd scarcely realized the thing was gone.

"Where is he?!" Blurr wailed, a fury in his optics the likes of which Sentinel had never seen before, least of all from a bot that normally practiced such self-control.

"Agent Blurr, what is the meaning of this?!" he demanded with as much authority as he could muster given his current position.  His hope was to throw Blurr off-guard, but he was, ultimately, unsuccessful.  Blurr's arm slipped forward, slicing open a shallow laceration in Sentinel's armor.

"Don't play dumb with me!  What did you do to Cliffjumper?!"  He brought his blade back, deepening the wound.

A movement in the distant sky caught Sentinel's attention.  Jetfire and Jetstorm were on their way back.  His current situation was less than desirable, and at its current rate, would end in a stalemate at best.  Blurr could barely damage him, but he couldn't damage Blurr at all.  The little bot was too speedy to hit head on, but that didn't make him immune to sneak attacks.  He opened up a private comm frequency.

" _Jetfire, Jetstorm.  I require assistance.  Be quick, land a ways away, and don't make a sound. The target is Blurr.  I stress, it is_ imperative  _that he is not made aware of your presence until you have disabled him._ "

Their reply was instant.  " _Yes Sir!  We are engaging stealth protocols now!"_

Now Sentinel merely needed to keep Blurr distracted.  Fortunately, he was good at stalling.

"Yeaugh!  What are you trying to do?!" he screamed, as loudly as he could manage.  "Saw my head off?"

"Whatever it takes."  The blade slipped again, its heat burning at the already sensitive broken metal.  As far as pain went, it was low on the scale, but Sentinel had an intimate familiarity with energy weapons.  They worked wonders during interrogations, their unique nature provided not only the pain of the initial cut, but when exposed to extended contact, much as Blurr was doing now, would subject the target to severe heat damage, not to mention botched up circuitry caused by the millions of tiny vibrations exuded to keep the weapon functional.  Once again, Sentinel was grateful for his thick plating.  A bot of a lesser armor class would be whimpering by now.

"What makes you think I did anything to Cliffjumper?  Weren't  _you_  the last one to see him?"

Blurr dug a sharp knee into a gap in Sentinel's torso plating.   _That_  one had hurt.  His initial reaction was to smack the tiny bot away; he barely caught himself.  It was best that Blurr stay right where he was.  Instead, Sentinel settled on a pained grunt.

"Frag!  I told you, I don't know anything!"

Blurr withdrew, and this time, Sentinel had to resist the urge to grab him and hold him put.  He'd never manage it. He was smart enough to have learned  _that_  much.

Fortunately, Blurr only shifted down his body, seating himself on Sentinel's lower torso, legs straddling his narrow hips.  In other circumstances, the motion would have been a welcome surprise, but right here, it filled him with a deep mistrust.  The little bot was planning something.

"What the frag?  Get away from-"

And then he was cut off, as Blurr slid that hot, jagged blade right up under his grille.

Sentinel jerked forward, neatly dislodging the weapon, all the while shrieking like a beast demented.  Blurr managed to remain more-or-less in place despite the struggling, and poised himself to strike again.

"I received a distress call from Cliffjumper scarcely more than five kliks ago, telling me that you were trying to kill him.  I honed in on his coordinates at the time of the message, and they led me here, where I found you, your energon-caked plating, the energon saturated ground, and no Cliffjumper.  I see this and fear for the worst, but I'm clinging to the small hope that he might still be alive - that you are not as abhorrent of a mech as you've proven yourself to be.  So I ask one more time, what have you done with Cliffjumper?"

" _We are near,"_ the words of one of the twins appeared on his HUD.  " _If you are making much noise, he will not hear us coming."_

Make noise, eh?  Sentinel could do that.

"You got me, Agent.  I killed Cliffjumper.  He was a traitor, looking to leak privileged Autobot secrets to the Decepticons.  I had no choice but to kill him."

Sentinel cried out again, as that horrible little saw was shoved up under his grille for the second time.

"Liar!" Blurr screamed, raw, unbridled rage consuming him, right down to his rapidly pulsing EM field.  This was good.  Blurr was doing all of the work for him.

"Even if what you've said is true, you've handled this in a manner which stands counter to everything we as Autobots claim to uphold.  Did you learn nothing from Prowl?   _We're_  not supposed to be the ones who execute bots based on mere suspicion!  And if Cliffjumper  _had_  been a spy, which I in no way believe, I doubt very much that he posed much of a threat to us as a group, and you personally. 

"The proper protocol would have been to apprehend him, surely  _you_  could've managed that, and from there we would interrogate.  Pit, we could've learned something important about our long-time enemies - that is, if you were, in fact, telling the truth.

"But you are not telling the truth.  You are lying now, just as you always have.  You lied to get Longarm onto the ship, lied about your reasons for wanting us there, lied to get Optimus to not dock on Theophany - Longarm told me that one, and then you went and tried to pin responsibility for the explosion on everyone but the one who was actually to blame!"

Sentinel felt his fist clench.  Cliffjumper had found out his secret.  And he had told Blurr.  Neither of them had understood - he hadn't expected them to.  They'd think him irresponsible at best, and a heartless murderer at worst.  Well they were both wrong.  A smile broke out on Sentinel's face, masking his own fury.

"Why are you smiling?" Blurr narrowed his optics and prepared for another blow.  He didn't have the chance.

Blurr was pulled from him in an instant, as Jetfire's hands wrapped around his narrow waist, dragging the now flailing mech towards the center of the clearing.  Surprised by the action, he lost his hold on his energy saw, which fell uselessly to the ground.  Disarmed, Blurr was acting on instinct now.  He began to kick out with his feet, wildly, dangerously, but Jetfire's plating was thick - the armor of a Decepticon.  He winced with each connected hit, but held fast to the panicking mech.

"Let me go let me go let me go let me go!"

Sentinel didn't waste a moment, rising to his feet, and drawing near, though out of range of the kicks.  "Not so fun from this side, now is it?"

"What's wrong with you?!" Blurr shrieked.  "You're supposed to be a leader, and yet you've failed every step of the way.  You're incompetent, petty, arrogant, childish, rash, and have absolutely no business leading protoforms, let alone the military!  I'd follow  _Bumblebee_  a million times over before I listened to a single, poisonous word from your vocaliser again!  Why are you doing this?!  If you keep on turning on your own mechs, then you won't have anyone left to lead!"

Sentinel didn't know what Blurr was trying to do.  Perhaps it was nothing.  Perhaps he'd at last snapped, and was merely saying every blasphemous things that crossed his mind, now that death was  imminent.  The few words in the rapid-fire tirade that Sentinel was able to pick up told him everything to know.  This bot had never believed in the cause.  No wonder he'd turned on them to side with Longarm.  Sentinel reached for his lance, hoping to make this a quick kill.  Blurr would surely find that appropriate.

Only, his lance was gone.  It had been lost in the earlier struggle.  Sentinel growled under his breath, bemoaning his woes.  How was he supposed to kill the traitor without a proper weapon?  He clenched a fist, not wanting to pawn off the task to the Jet Twins.  Execution was something he quite enjoyed; damned if he was going to let a lackey steal his thunder.

And that was when it came to him.  His fist relaxed, fingers itching now with anticipation rather than anger.

"Drag him to the ground."

"Yes sir!" Jetfire nodded.  He accomplished the task with little difficulty, though Blurr continued to kick blindly.  That was no good.  Blurr was at his most dangerous with his feet on the ground.  Already, even as immobilized as he was, he'd been able to push himself and Jetfire back along the forest floor, leaving a trail in the dirt behind him.

"Jetstorm, retrain his legs."

Jetstorm watched the limbs with dread, clearly not looking forward to the task at hand.  But he was not the kind of mech to refuse a direct order.  He offered Sentinel a salute, and shuffled over, wasting several nano-kliks before he even made an effort to grab the dangerous things.  He suffered a kick to the face, which left a noticeable dent, and several to his arms and chest before he finally managed a firm grip.  In response, Jetfire moved a little higher up, releasing Blurr's waist in favor of holding onto his arms.  At last, the small was properly restrained, stretched out on the ground before Sentinel like a present, waiting to be opened.

Sentinel moved in, mimicking Blurr's positioning from earlier.  But whereas their size disparity had made Blurr's efforts at interrogation an annoyance more than a threat, it managed a more extreme effect when Sentinel was the one in charge.  Tearing apart Blurr's flimsy plating would be easy for a bot of his size class, and he'd be lying if he said that he wasn't looking forward to it.  Already, he could feel the feeble struggles of the slim body beneath him.  What a head rush.

"Well then, let's start this.  Agent Blurr of Velocitron, you have been found guilty of treason in the highest degree.  With the power invested in me by Ultra Magnus, I hereby sentence you to death."

"Let go!  Get off of me!"  The rage hadn't left him despite their reversed positions.  But the fear was present as well, made clear by the senseless babbling coming from that fragile bot's mouth at an incomprehensible speed.  Sentinel smiled, a wicked expression spurred on by the heat of the moment.  He reached for Blurr's chest plating.

Cybertronians were known throughout the galaxy as being difficult to kill.  They were hardy creatures, able to come back from dismemberment and decapitation, among other things.  A bot's body could be destroyed beyond recognition, and still, so long as the spark remained intact, it could pull back and make a full recovery.  It was thusly, that the easiest way to kill a Cybertronian, was to destroy their spark.

Sentinel's fingers were too thick to get much purchase on Blurr's chest plating; it would be near-impossible to pull the thin armor apart without making any adjustments.  He eyed the black glass of Blurr's windshield with a grin.  Fortunately, the adjustments could be made.

The shriek Blurr let out was piercing; high above, a murder of upset birds took flight.  Sentinel had punched through the windshield with enough force to dent the thin plating beneath, sending shards of glass flying several feet all around them, and fresh energon spattering into his face.  The now-gaping hole in Blurr's chest didn't give him immediate access to the bot's spark chamber, but it did afford him a nice grip on the panels that framed either side of Blurr's chest.  He pried them apart, reveling in the way that the thin plating peeled back, as though it were comprised of weak, organic flesh.  It was enough to wedge a gap in the last bit of metal that protected Blurr's spark.  Sentinel pulled it away.

The blue light beneath burned brilliantly, pulsing with a panicked desperation that he had encountered in no other sparks before.  He attributed it to the mech's glitch and paid it no mind.  Blurr's back had arched off the ground with the force of his writhing, and from Sentinel's back, he could hear Jetstorm's grunting as he tried to maintain his hold on Blurr's legs.  The screaming had given way to a stream of shrill begging:  _Please, please, please, please, please please;_  repeated over and over again.  It only served to egg Sentinel on.  He reached out, thick hand barely fitting into the hole he'd created, and wrapped it around the spark.

It was hot, buzzing painfully like an intensified version of Blurr's own energy weapon.  Extended contact was probably a bad idea, but Sentinel didn't intend on holding on for too long.  He began to squeeze.

The unmistakable roar of a discharging, high-powered energy weapon rang out over the clearing, and before he could comprehend what was happening, Jetfire collapsed to the ground in front of him, his left arm blown clean off, and his torso plating partially melted.  From his back, he could hear Jetstorm cry out, in pain, in grief, in fury.

"Jetstorm, wait!"

But Jetstorm wasn't listening.  He released his hold on Blurr's legs and charged towards the trees, towards where their attacker was hiding, ready to avenge his wounded brother. 

A second shot rang out, and Sentinel could only watch as it tore right through Jetstorm's chest, heat so intense that even the jet's Decepticon plating was vaporized.  The blue drained from his body and he collapsed to the ground, dead. 

Sentinel hadn't been so terrified in eons.  He was alone, his two closest companions, individually superior to him in strength, had been brought down with ease, by some unknown assailant.  Worse yet, he was completely unarmed.  Had he still held onto his lance and shield, he may have had a chance.  Pit, if Blurr's disarmed energy saw had landed somewhere in  _sight_ , he might have fared all right.  But as it was, he was on his own.

It was thus, when that monster slid out from behind the remains of the smoldering bushes it had been lurking in, that Sentinel chose to run rather than fight.

He'd recognized the creature, from datapads read in his academy days, from legends, from case files.  He'd seen that giant creature before, in photographs going back millions of years.   He'd seen those claws, massive enough to encompass his own waist, tear apart ancient Autobots, severing limbs and piercing sparks.  He'd seen that great red optic, standing stark on an otherwise blank face haunting his nightmares as a cadet.  This was Shockwave, Megatron's lieutenant, and one of the most fearsome Decepticons in recorded history.

Sentinel's legs were pulled out from under him mid-stride, and he was sent toppling back to the ground.  The creature's left claw remained wrapped around one thick calf, tentatively pinning him in place, while its optic studied him with mild curiosity.  He hadn't been shot.  The thought filled him with relief, and then dread.  What did this creature want from him, if not to kill him?  Information, perhaps?

"I'll tell you nothing, Decepticon scum!" he proclaimed, boldly.  Sentinel was sub-commander of the Elite Guard.  Like the Pit was he going to allow himself to spill anything to this monster.

"You have no information that I desire," the creature said.  It's voice was deep, raspy, and somehow familiar.

"What?"  If it didn't want to interrogate him, then what  _did_  it want?

"Rather, I am here with a much more benevolent purpose."

"Benevolent?"

It leaned in close, its single, red optic bright with excitement.  "Justice."  Sentinel didn't miss the brief glance the monster cast at Blurr, who had crawled to a sitting position, hands over his exposed chest, staring at the ground with rapid vents.  It was at that point that Sentinel noticed the monster's color scheme.  Grey and teal - not exactly a common combination.  Realization set in.

"Longarm."

Shockwave returned his attention to Sentinel, splaying his free claws across Sentinel's broad chest.  "I don't deny it."

Anger began to creep in, shoving his fear to the side.  "Primus!  I suspected you were up to no good, but to think that you're  _Shockwave_  of all mechs?!  Sitting here under our noses for  _how_ long?!  Do you know how many Autobots trusted you?!"

"It seems that you fail to understand the modus operandi of a spy," Shockwave said with a chuckle.

"Shut up!  I know how spies work!" 

Before he had a chance to protest further, the claws on his chest clenched all at once, and he was raised off of the ground, held aloft by his grille.  "What?!"

"I have neither the time nor the desire to chat with you.  Frankly, I find you to be a reprehensible little creature that has been granted privileges far beyond its merit.  It had not been my intention to break my cover, but I would be lying if I denied that I have longed for this moment from the our first meeting."

The claws holding his leg twisted, and Sentinel was forced to let out a howl of pain as the thick metal buckled and snapped, severing the limb.  "Sweet Primus!"

"That was for all of the humiliation you have put me through over the vorns."

Sentinel was in too much agony to pay attention to Shockwave's words.  His servos groped blindly for Shockwave's own, expending all of his remaining strength in an effort to dislodge those claws from his chest.  He had no such luck.

"But I am not the only one you have slighted."  His free claw found its way to Sentinel's struggling servos.  With minimal effort, Shockwave was able to pry one away, and held it tight, as one might hold a lover's.  And then he forced his claw forward, bending back every finger in one swift motion.  Sentinel wailed once again.

"Let's make that one for Cliffjumper, shall we?  I never much cared for the fellow myself, but I can smell his energon all over you.  You murdered him, didn't you?  Sentinel, the wise and just Autobot leader slaughtered one of the most ineffectual bots in his service.  Why?  Why should it matter?  It is everything I've come to expect from  _you._ "  He uttered the last word with a seething disgust, a hatred so intense that Sentinel could feel it resonating within his own spark.

"You slagged up glitch!" Sentinel tried to growl, but it came out as a choked whimper.  Shockwave brought Sentinel's struggling body up higher, holding it level with his own blank face.  He blinked his great, red optic, as if affronted.

"I'd prefer it if you refrained from speaking.  I've always found your voice to be -"

"Like the Pit I'll shut up!" Sentinel interrupted with a surprisingly brave sneer.  "Face it Shockwave.  I'm not a bot to be silenced!"

Shockwave seemed to rather be a fan of irony.  That dangerous free claw, already responsible for maiming Sentinel's leftmost extremities was on the move again.  This time, in one swift motion, it reached for Sentinel's throat, piercing through the reinforced metal with a practiced precision.  Sentinel didn't shriek this time.  He couldn't, for his vocalizer had been destroyed.  Instead, he spit a pained stream of static.  He was helpless here; left on their current route, Shockwave would kill him.  It was time to put aside his pride and call for help.  He opened up his comm, ready to call for Optimus . . .

His effort was ended before it had the chance to begin.  Shockwave seemed to have picked up on what he was doing, for the great brute whirled around, slamming Sentinel head-first into the nearest tree.  It was another precision attack, destroying the intended hardware in one fell stroke.  It left a high pitched shriek of feedback sounding in his audial.

That had been it.  Sentinel's last hope had melted away before his optics.  He looked to Blurr again, already regretting their recent spat.  The stupid little bot remained unmoving on the ground, watching Shockwave with terror, with disgust; there was no way he had known about this, not with the way he was cowering away from that great monster.  If only he had enough sense to run for help before Shockwave was able to kill them both.  Clearly he'd need prompting.

Sentinel tried to make eye contact, to wave his good hand, to draw the little bot's attention, but it was all in vain.  It did, however, have the unintentional side effect of letting Shockwave in on his plan once again.  The huge bot shifted their positions once more, placing himself firmly between Sentinel Prime and Blurr.

"Do you like what you see?  I do hope so.  For it has brought you to this moment.  Tell me Sentinel, was it worth it?"

Sentinel replied with a short burst of static.

"Ah, but of course, you can't talk.  No matter, I believe I am done toying with you."   With one sudden jerk, Shockwave was able to rip Sentinel's entire front carriage from his chest, leaving him roiling in pain, as his body, no longer held tight, dropped to the ground.  He was barely even aware of his brief freedom, the burn of split circuits and shattered fuel lines was so intense.  His vision was beginning to pixellate.

Shockwave didn't bother to kneel over him, choosing instead to stand tall, and allow his arm to stretch down to Sentinel's now-exposed chest, claws wrapping themselves around his spark.  Sentinel's abused vents stuttered and hitched, before his fans gave up altogether.  This was the end.

"You've done some pretty heinous things over the years, but I've abided it.  I've been patient.  I've been calm.  I've let you have your way, knowing that there were more important things at stake than personal grudges.  However," he gave the spark a quick squeeze, sending a gut-wrenching surge through Sentinel's body, leaving him convulsing as a steady stream of static spilled from his vocalizer.  He couldn't see anymore - could barely hear.

"Your actions here today, I cannot abide.  Let it be known that your life will end, for you made the mistake of hurting what rightfully belongs to me."  He leaned in close, voice dropping to but a whisper.  "I promised Blurr that I would make you suffer should you ever hurt him, and unlike you, I keep my promises."

In one sudden motion, those sharp claws dug in, piercing straight into the core of his stuttering spark.

The red glow of Shockwave's optic was the last thing Sentinel saw before his world turned black.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The entire latter half of the chapter was in fact, one of the first scenes I'd come up with for this story, so woo. I've been waiting to write this for a long time coming.
> 
> On another note, I'm probably gonna go back through the whole story in the near(ish) future and do some minor tweaking. The trouble with posting at 5 in the morning (is this gonna be a regular thing now?) is that my proofreading skills go *poof* and there are, at the very least, a LOT of typos that need to go take a hike.


	26. Mutually Assured Destruction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blurr has discovered Shockwave's secret, but will he keep it?

It was official, Blurr no longer understood anything.  How could he?  In the last ten kliks or so, everything that he'd ever believed in, everything he'd thought he'd known, had been turned on its head.  He'd half thought he was dreaming, the experience was so surreal.

One moment, he was wandering the woods in search of Longarm Prime, who had somehow managed to give Sentinel the slip in Blurr's absence, and bring him back to base.  The next, he was on the receiving end of an unsolicited message from Cliffjumper.  It  hadn't been  _that_ surprising, all things considered.  They had just been through a conflict without resolution, after all.  It only made sense for the stubborn little bot to press the issue.

Then he'd heard its contents.

Cliffjumper  _had_  cared; it was more apparent with the passing of each message.  Blurr didn't know why they were only now getting through, but Cliffjumper had clearly thought that he'd heard them by now.  No wonder he'd felt betrayed!  And though it was no fault of his own, Blurr felt the guilt bubbling inside of him, threatening to burst forth.

Then the last message had played.

He checked the timestamp, both horrified and relieved to find that it had come only two kliks ago.  There was no time to wait for backup.  Cliffjumper needed help, and he needed it immediately!

Blurr honed in on the coordinates of Cliffjumper's distress signal, and took off, shooting him a brief message as he ran.

_"Ciffjumper, are you all right?  I've locked onto your distress signal, and I'm on my way!  Please, just hang on for a little longer!"_

What he'd found upon his arrival, however, was energon - splattering Sentinel's broad chest, staining the ground with its nasty pink glow.  Cliffjumper was nowhere to be found.

If Blurr had been as smart as Longarm professed, he would have fled, would have waited for back up, would have done anything other than what he had.  But Blurr wasn't smart.  Blurr had rushed Sentinel head-on, had tried to torture Cliffjumper's whereabouts from that thick head of his.  He wouldn't deny that it felt cathartic, to have at his mercy a mech who had spent every one of their own interactions trying to demean and belittle Blurr, when he wasn't outright assaulting him.  But it was the wrong course of action, fueled by fear, by desperation, and the results were disastrous.  He'd barely had time enough to send his own distress cry to Longarm when the tables had turned.  It had gone unanswered.

There wasn't enough time - not with Sentinel Prime bearing down on him, tearing his body apart, wrapping his grimy hands around Blurr's very soul and squeezing until his vision went white.  By all rights, by logic and reason, by all things that made sense, he should have died there.  Jetfire and Jetstorm wouldn't turn on their boss, and even if Longarm  _had_  received his message, he wouldn't have had time to respond, let alone get the backup he needed to not repeat Blurr's own folly.

But Blurr hadn't died.  He'd been saved by cannon fire, powerful enough to vaporize even the thick plating of the Jet Twins.  And that was where reality shot off into outer space, never to return.

He'd been saved, not just by any Decepticon, but by _Shockwave_ , one of the most ancient, powerful, cunning, and loyal of  _all_  Decepticons, at least according to his file.  But it hadn't just been Shockwave to save him.   Blurr recognized the familiar sheen of grey and teal plating, the v-shaped fold of his treads, the vents that framed his wide chest, and of course, that great red bulb in the center of his face.  He hadn't needed Sentinel to confirm it for him.  Longarm Prime was Shockwave.  His lover, the bot he'd trusted more than any other, had committed the ultimate betrayal.

He wanted to run, wanted to get away, find a dark corner of the world, bury his head, and hide.  But his legs weren't responding.  He could only sit, and watch in horror as the one he loved ripped his commanding officer apart, all the while taking joy in his fear, in his pain.

Each strike of those massive claws sent a sharp pain into Blurr's own spark - the pain of betrayal?  Or feedback from the damage that Sentinel had already wrought?  Perhaps a bit of both.  Whatever its source, the sensation set his body ablaze, filled his HUD with error after error as his systems failed, tried to reboot, and failed again.  Blurr's body had shut down.

He didn't react as Shockwave shoved his claws through that bright spark, as its brilliant blue light drained and faded, as the energy dispersed harmlessly into the air.  It was the exact way that Sentinel had meant to kill  _him_ , and Shockwave had done it in  _his_ name.  It was the ultimate form of vengeance, of justice well-served.

Shockwave was moving now, gliding with a grace that ill-suited his massive frame.

_It's not him!  Longarm is small and gentle and kind!  It's not him!_

Large, grey pedes stopped just short of the brutalized, colorless husk that had been Jetstorm's body, nudging it over, admiring his work.  He didn't stay long, allowing just enough time to commit the gruesome image to his memory banks, before moving on to Jetfire.

Unlike his brother, Jetfire hadn't been killed in the initial blast.  He lay trembling on the ground, clutching at the joint where his arm had once been with weak sobs.  There was no energon dribbling from the wound; the cannon fire had been hot enough to cauterize it on contact.  In fact, Blurr was willing to bet that the pain that so wracked Jetfire's frame was caused not so much by the damage that Shockwave had inflicted upon him, as the trauma of losing his brother - losing a mech who shared half of his spark.  With another pede, Shockwave rolled the jet onto his back, and let that same pede press down on his chest.  Jetfire writhed and screamed beneath the monster's weight.  It was too much.

"Stop it!" Blurr cried out, unable to do any more.  It was enough.  Shockwave paused in his efforts at crushing the life out of Jetfire, to turn his blank, red optic on Blurr.

_No!_

Blurr drew into himself beneath that expressionless gaze, an instinctive part of him, buried beneath millennia of training and discipline, begging him to cower, marking the creature that stood across from him as his lethal superior, to be feared and fled from.

Shockwave stepped no closer, saw Blurr as no threat to his goals, not worth his time.  Instead, he returned his attention to Jetfire, ready to snuff out his spark, as he had done to Sentinel and Jetstorm before him.  Again, Blurr found his voice.

"No more!  Please, no more!"

Blurr was a fast bot, there was little that was imperceptible to his optics.  It was thus, that he saw every shifting gear, every turn of a tread, every twitching joint as Shockwave rushed him.  And even so, he did nothing to dodge.

Blurr was on his back, too frightened to react, as those massive claws pressed him down, caged him, secured him in place.  He was trapped, and Longarm wasn't coming to save him this time.

"Please," he begged, keeping his optics locked on that red light shining from an otherwise empty face.  "Please don't kill him!  No more!  Please no more!  Please please please!"

Shockwave tilted that great head of his, as though perplexed that Blurr would beg for the life of a bot who had just tried to kill him.  Even Blurr found the notion ridiculous, but he couldn't stop the words that poured from his vocaliser.

"He is a witness," Shockwave said at last, words cutting through Blurr's own frantic babbling.  His voice was ancient, dark, and had traces of a Tarnian accent, but it was unmistakably Longarm's.  Blurr cringed again, whimpering to himself, even as Shockwave continued.  "He has seen my true face.  He will doubtless tell the others, and blow my cover.  Therefore, he must die."

Blurr ceased in his struggling.  His life was in Shockwave's claws now; he might as well make the most of it.  "What about me?  I'm a witness too."

Shockwave leaned in close, until that terrifying optic was mere inches from his own face.  "Are you going to tell?"

Blurr didn't answer right away.  It took prompting from Shockwave's claws, tightening around his chest to get anything from Blurr, but what he got wasn't much.  "I . . ."  Shockwave squeezed harder.

"I said, 'Are you going to tell?'  Is my secret safe with you, or will all of this death have been for nothing?"

The truth was, Blurr didn't know.  Deception or not, this was  _Longarm_ , the mech who had given him meaning, who had kept him alive and safe and even happy.  It came down to loyalty - which would he betray?  His treacherous lover, or the cause that he'd already lost faith in?  He'd have to answer soon; Shockwave was growing impatient.

"I  _should_  turn you in," he muttered, without much conviction.

"But will you?" Shockwave persisted.

Try as he might, Blurr still didn't have an answer.  Why hadn't he run when he'd had the chance?  He could have been far away from here, far away from the hard questions, away from Shockwave, away from the Autobots.  His life was over.  He couldn't choose.  Stay silent and live with the guilt, or tell and die for his ungrateful allies?

Perhaps he could make Shockwave choose?

"Why did you reveal your cover to me?" he asked, his voice bolder than before.

A low sound escaped from Shockwave's vocaliser.  It might have been a chuckle, but it was hard to say for sure.  The monster pulled away, though kept his claws in place, conceding to play Blurr's game.

"Very well.  I shall explain myself.  But you seem to have forgotten, Blurr, my promise to you?"

_I will make him suffer._

Blurr shook his head, as the memory of that dark conversation persisted.  "But that was Longarm, not you!  What do  _you_  have to gain by blowing your cover for my sake?"

Shockwave cocked his head, antennae giving the slightest twitch.  Blurr found the movement unsettling.  He winced.

"Oh?  Are we really so different?"

Blurr's answer was a resounding, "Yes!"

Shockwave was not convinced, however.  "I am disappointed that you think that.  He and I have more in common than you might imagine, as painful as it is for me to admit."

"What, that you're both liars?  Murderers?!"

"Blurr," Shockwave tried to sooth, but Blurr was having none of it.

" _You're_  the one who killed Ratchet, aren't you?!  It wasn't these spiders that Jazz found!  I wonder if they even exist, now, or were they another trick of yours?!"

"Blurr -"

"And what about Cliffjumper?  I never did find him!  Was he another one of yours?  Was this all some twisted scheme concocted by you?!   _Where is-"_ Blurr was cut off by heavy claws pressing into his open chest.  He let out a startled shriek.

"Enough," Shockwave said, voice firm, but soft.  "You are correct.  I was the one who killed Ratchet.  But I'm afraid I cannot take credit for Cliffjumper.  His death was at the hands of Sentinel.  You know this to be true.  There is no reason to blame me for it."

"You're lying," Blurr growled, at last averting his optics, rolling his head to the side, giving up.  The earth was cool against his cheek.

"I am not, but I suppose I cannot force you to believe me."  He paused for a long moment, staring at Blurr's shivering form with a hungry anticipation.  Blurr felt sick.

"Why me?" he at last squeaked, at no more than a whisper.

"Because you are special," was Shockwave's matter-of-fact reply.

Blurr's head snapped right back up.  "But I'm not!  I'm no great genius, no one-man army!  I don't have any deep Autobot secrets, no more than you have at least!  I'm not important enough to be bargaining material, and I have not a single thing to offer you that no one else can give, so why?  Why am I worth Sentinel's death?!  And Jetstorm's?  What have I done to warrant your creepy affections?"

"I have spent much time asking myself the same, Blurr," Shockwave said, unreadable still.

"And?"

"And I don't have an answer that can satisfy either of us.  It was your loyalty that drew me to you initially, but we both know that that particular quality has been destroyed by my actions.  There is no reason that I cling to you still, and yet here I am.  You have infected me, Blurr.  I do not know how you have managed to do so, but the result is the same."  He pulled away his claw, though remained kneeling at Blurr's side, watching him, with as much intensity as ever.  "I cannot kill you - cannot even contemplate it.  I have tried, you must understand.

"I called you out to the cave on that first night to end your life, to relieve myself of the upsetting emotions you were causing within me, and yet here we are.  You alive, and me your unwitting slave.  In the end, whether you tell the Autobots about me or not, it makes little difference.  I cannot stop you.  Do what you will."  He rose to his feet, a smooth motion that didn't seem possible.

Blurr struggled upwards, until he was sitting up straight, hands covering the hole in his chest.  Shockwave had conceded too easily.  Something wasn't right.  "I'll tell them then."

Shockwave's back was turned, his attention directed at Jetfire, who still lay whimpering on the ground.  But he was listening, still.  "Is that what you want to do?"

Blurr spat out his answer before he'd had a chance to think it over.  He didn't want to think it over.  He knew what would happen if he thought it over.

"Yes!  It's the right thing to do!  You are an enemy spy who has wormed his way into the heart of our society, who has placed himself in a position to learn all of our secrets, who will undoubtedly bring about our undoing!  It is my duty as an Autobot, as an Elite Guardsmech, as a member of the Intelligence Agency, to report your activity!"

That low, eerie laugh escaped from Shockwave again.  It made Blurr's plating crawl.  "I did not ask if it was the right thing to do, or your duty.  I asked if it was what you wanted.  Based on your answer, I don't suppose it is."

He'd known Shockwave would do this, knew exactly where this line of conversation would get him.  A smart, loyal little Autobot would have gone running off to Optimus and the others the moment Shockwave's back was turned.  But Blurr had stayed.  Shockwave knew him too well.  Shockwave had won, without lifting a finger.

"Of course it is!" he protested, trying to prolong the inevitable.  He'd never been able to stand up to Longarm.  Why should Shockwave be any different?  "I'm loyal! I'm dutiful!  I'm a good soldier, a good agent, I'm a good Autobot!"

"You're not."

Blurr narrowed his optics, limping closer to that giant brute, who  _still_  wouldn't look at him.  "What do you mean by that?!  You've said as much in the past, Sir!  I know you have!"  He caught his slip too late.  Shockwave craned his neck around, optic falling on Blurr once again.  He had no face, but Blurr was willing to bet that Shockwave would be wearing a smug grin if he'd had one.

"I am flattered that you still call me 'Sir,' Blurr.  It is very becoming of you."

"Shut up!" he screeched, shuffling backward.  Why was he still here?

Shockwave turned his body fully, stepping close enough to loom over Blurr.  Blurr was not a small Autobot, but even standing at full height, he was only eye-level with Shockwave's hips.  He'd never felt so inconsequential in his life. 

"Indeed.  I have called you loyal and dutiful.  You are a good soldier and a great agent.  But you are a terrible Autobot.  You always have been."

"Stop!"

Shockwave laid two massive claws on Blurr's shoulder, a gesture that was much too familiar.  Blurr shook it off, though Shockwave didn't seem too offended, eyeing the digits with an air of amusement.

"Sentinel Prime was a good Autobot.  Jetfire and Jetstorm were good Autobots _.  Longarm_  was a good Autobot.  A good Autobot lives by the will of the Magnus, of the Council, of the Senate.  A good Autobot doesn't think; he follows orders.  A good Autobot has no room for sympathy or honor; those are qualities apt to get one killed.  All a good Autobot needs is to listen to the lies spewed by his superiors, unquestioning, blind."

"You're wrong!" Blurr tried again, but his spark wasn't in his protestations.

"You are smart enough to know that I am not," Shockwave cooed, hunching to bring himself closer to Blurr's level.  "I have lived through two wars, and here I am at the onset of a third.  I've seen it happen time and again - hate and ignorance undying even after all this time."

Blurr shook his head.  "The Decepticons are no better than us!"

He was stilled by a gentle claw-tip, set firmly atop his antenna.  "This is true.  Neither side is made  of saints.  But the Decepticons have never pretended to claim the moral high ground."

"Are you trying to convert me?" Blurr growled.  "Because I'm not having it!"

"All in good time."  Shockwave's tone had scarcely changed, but Blurr was beginning to see reflections of Longarm within it - twisted, but present.  It was enough to read the monster's emotions.  Shockwave sounded smug, sounded like he'd already won.  "But not today.  You are troubled, damaged, and in no position to be making life-altering decisions.  Come with me.  We can return to the cave - you like it there."

Blurr's head was spinning.  He wobbled a little on his feet, only to find himself leaning on the treads of one of Shockwave's long legs.  He didn't bother pushing himself away.  "I want to go back."

"Back?" Shockwave questioned.  His claws were now stroking gently at the crest of Blurr's antenna.  He should have resented the action, struggled away, but he was too tired to protest, and in all honesty, it felt good.  He nuzzled into the touch, hating himself for it.

"They'll figure out what happened sooner or later.  I want it to be on my terms.  It's easier that way."

There was a smile in Shockwave's voice, as he said, "I do so love the way you think."  Blurr thought he would be sick, but managed to hold down his energon.  "Very well.  We shall do this your way, and return to base."  All at once, Shockwave's body began to morph and shift, arms and legs and neck folding into themselves, helm twisting, antennae collapsing, transforming himself from a hulking monster, to a portly little Prime. 

Seeing Longarm's face was enough to send Blurr hurling himself away, the disgust finally too much to bear.  Shockwave at least, seemed to be on the same page.

"I know that this is hardly a face you want to see right now, but you will have to get used to it."  When he spoke, it was with Longarm's voice.  The sound of it grated on Blurr's audials, brought static to his optics.  But Shockwave was right.  If Blurr was seen letting his emotions get the better of him, then Shockwave's cover would be blown for certain, and what then?  Blurr would have his freedom, his peace of mind, but he wouldn't have  _Longarm_.  And what was life without Longarm?  His head hurt.

Already wearing his full disguise, Shockwave's body shifted again, this time transforming into Longarm's alt-mode.  "Climb on."

Blurr hesitated.  "Why?"

The neck of Longarm's alt-mode swung up-and-down - his way of shrugging.  "You are injured, and I feel uncomfortable with letting you walk back to base.  Please climb on, Blurr."

Blurr still didn't budge.  His optics instead were drawn to a dull orange body on the ground.  "What about Jetfire?"

Shockwave's voice was strained when he answered.  "I told you, he knows my secret.  And unlike you, I have no reservations about killing him."

"No."  Blurr shook his head, feeling more resolved than he had all cycle.  "Jetfire lives.  I've been at the center of three deaths already today.  I refuse to allow one more."

"Very well."  Shockwave's entire frame drooped in a heavy sigh.  His treads drifted clumsily over the uneven ground, but eventually he reached Jetfire, who had at last drifted out of consciousness.  Blurr watched Shockwave's every move with suspicion.

"Is he going to make it?"

"He's stable, yes.  Just in stasis lock, from the shock to his frame and spark.  I can't imagine he will recover any time soon.  It will give me time to come up with a better way to silence him."

"Shockwave!" Blurr protested, but Shockwave was having none of it.

"I may be at  _your_  mercy, Blurr, but I will not allow my mission to be jeopardized.  I will not kill Jetfire, at your request, but I will not let him share what he knows either."  He reached down, managing to get his hook around Jetfire's torso plating, and hoisted him from the ground.  "Now, climb on."

Blurr felt this was his last chance to disobey, to run away, to pretend that he had any semblance of control over his life.  But who was he kidding?  Blurr was helpless before Shockwave, as he'd always been, and evidently Shockwave was in a similar boat.  His fate was inescapable, and he mourned it.  He was trapped in the clutches of this monster that had led him in, ensnared him with love and kindness.  There would be no happy ending for him, no future of domestic bliss with a loving conjunx endura by his side.  There was only Shockwave  - terrifying and painful.  His life had been turned on its head, and he knew, from here on, that it would never right itself.

With shaking legs, he stumbled over to Shockwave, in the guise of Longarm, and struggled to climb onto his back.  Securely seated up there, hands clasped tightly over his chest, Blurr allowed Shockwave to drive them off, away from this place, and straight into the arms of their mutually assured destruction.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm bad at estimates.


	27. Unreality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Optimus explores the woods on his own, or at least he thinks he does.

It had been a rather unproductive morning for Optimus and his crew.  The energon distillery had been functional for several days now, but what did it matter if they couldn't find anything to convert into fuel?  The organic nature of the world made their job all the more difficult.  Ores and oils, Optimus knew, but plants and animals and fungi were all a mystery to him.  Unfortunately, that was what they had to work with, and even after Jazz's ill-advised foray into celebratory drinking last night, Optimus wasn't quite reckless enough to try anything he didn't understand just yet.  If they broke the machine using improper materials, they could easily find themselves worse off than when they started.

It was thus, that Optimus, as well as Bumblebee and Bulkhead were scouring the woods, looking in vain for any sign of useable minerals.  Three cycles of digging through soil and beach and cavern had left them with no fruit for their efforts, and the others were getting restless.

"How much longer are we gonna be at this, Boss Bot?" Bumblebee groaned, tossing the useless rock he'd just mined to the side like the garbage it was.  "I don't think my stingers have much bite left."  To prove his point, the tools blinked and sputtered, sending a small shower of sparks falling to the ground below.

"I know that we're all tired, but this is a matter of life and death.  We've got to keep trying."  The words were big, motivational, but Optimus was not feeling them at all.  Morale in the little group was already abysmal, but an even greater blow was his own lack of mining equipment.  Bumblebee was drilling and Bulkhead smashing , but Optimus had no option open to him but to punch ineffectually at the cave walls.  He was tired as any of them.

"I know you're the boss and all, but I'm pretty sure there's nothing here," Bulkhead added, before swinging his wrecking ball at the cave wall.  A flurry of sharp rocks was broken away, ricocheting off their own plating before falling to the ground.  At the same time, the whole cavern let out an ominous rumble.  While Optimus was confident in the structural integrity of the place, it was probably best not to push their luck.

"I suppose you're right.  We've been here long enough.  Let's roll out."  It was a little disheartening, the way Bulkhead and Bumblebee's faces lit up at the prospect of leaving, but he could hardly blame them.  Were responsibility not weighing him down, surely he would have had a similar reaction.  With an annoyed sigh, he transformed to alt mode; the sound that came from behind him confirmed that his companions had done the same.  Without pausing to look back, Optimus led the way from the cave, and back into the woods, still damp and muddy from the previous night's rain.

"Okay," said Bumblebee, pulling up beside him as they drove.  "So the cave was a bust, the beach was a bust, and the woods were a bust.  What's next?"

"You do realize that there is more than one cave on this island, and that's to say nothing of the beaches and the very-expansive forest, right?  We won't know for certain if there's any convertible material unless we scour every inch of this rock."

Bumblebee's engine stalled at his words, and he fell back with a cough.  "Every inch?  We'll be _dead_ by then!" he whined.

Optimus was rolling his optics on the inside.  At least Bumblebee _had_ the energy to whine.  He supposed that was a plus when compared with his state the past several days.  "Perhaps that wouldn't be an issue if you hadn't used up all the rest of your allotted rations last night."

He sputtered again.  "But Jazz did it too!  He was absolutely sure that we'd be finding energon really soon."

Optimus's initial reaction would have been to dismiss the claim, but Jazz was not a stupid bot.  If he was certain that drinking the rations wouldn't be a problem, then he knew something that Optimus didn't.  Perhaps he'd shared the news with Bumblebee? 

"Did he happen to say why he thought that?"

"No," Bumblebee grumbled.  "He was being secretive and coy and all that annoying stuff that makes him so damn cool."

Bulkhead chuckled from the back of the group.  "You got it bad, Little Buddy."

"I do not!" Bumblebee protested, affronted yes, but also clearly lying.  In a huff, he sped up, driving alongside Optimus.  "Anyway, I'm sure Jazz knows what he's talking about.  Why don't we let him do his thing?  We're just wasting our time here anyway."

The thought of sitting around doing nothing did not sit well with Optimus, but Bumblebee _did_ have a point.  They could waste fuel and energy combing the island in a useless attempt at finding raw materials for energon, or they could talk to Jazz, find out what he knew, and go from there.  It would be the smart thing to do.  Another sigh wracked his frame; he hated when Bumblebee was right.

"While normally I'd be against shirking our duties, I actually think that you're on to something."

"I am?!" Bumblebee exclaimed gleefully, before catching himself.  He fell back, trying to play off his actions as cool. "I mean, of course I am.  I'm a pretty sharp guy once you get to know me."

Bumblebee continued to ramble on about his positive qualities, and what Jazz might see in him, while Bulkhead offered astonished interjections, but Optimus had stopped listening.  He'd noticed something, out of the corner or his optic - something sparkling as it caught the sunlight in just the right way, something strung up in the tree tops.  He came to a stop.

"Uh, Optimus?  Are you okay?"  Bulkhead questioned, turning around to check on him.  Bumblebee, on the other hand, had driven several paces ahead before realizing that he was no longer being followed.  He wheeled around at full speed, sending a shower of mud up with him.

"What's the hold up?"

Optimus took the opportunity to revert to his root mode.  "I just remembered.  We haven't checked the stream yet."

A synchronized groan arose from both Bumblebee and Bulkhead as they drooped on their wheels.

"Really?!" Bumblebee griped.  "You can't play with our sparks like this, Boss Bot!  I was all psyched to go back to base, y'know!  Besides, you said yourself that we're just wasting time here!  Come on!"

Optimus shook his head.  "Don't worry about it.  You two can go back to camp.  I'll check the stream and catch up with you later."

While Bumblebee straightened up with relief at the answer, Bulkhead remained unconvinced.  "Are you going to be all right?  The spiders are still out here, aren't they?  Shouldn't we stick together?"

Bulkhead was a lot smarter than most folks gave him credit for.  His point was valid, and were Optimus not acting on selfish purpose, he might have urged them to come with, or otherwise would have continued on back to base with the group, as had been the original plan.  But this matter was entirely personal. 

It was no coincidence that he'd been plagued by nightmares of Archa Seven for the past several days, before he'd so much as looked at one of those spider webs - and Sentinel had confirmed that the same was true for him.  Optimus didn't know what it meant - they were far from the spiders' home world, and there was no reason that the beasts of Energoa should be related to those hideous creatures from the other.  Despite all logic and reason, however, Optimus was certain that the two planets were _somehow_ connected, and he was determined to find out how.

_For Elita's sake._

"Don't worry about me.  I promise, I won't be long.  There's just something I want to check up on."

Bulkhead continued to face him, engine puttering away in thought.  It was clear that he wasn't quite convinced, but Bulkhead was an easygoing bot.  He wouldn't argue.

And he didn't. 

"Well, I guess if you're sure," he said, caving at long last.  "Just make sure to call if there's any trouble.  Okay?"

"Of course," Optimus nodded with a smile.  "I'll see you back at base."

"See you, Boss Bot!" Bumblebee said before Bulkhead had the chance.  He took off, zooming into the woods, and Bulkhead had to hurry after him to not lose sight.  Soon enough the two of them were gone, leaving Optimus alone to investigate.  He turned his attention upwards.

In the treetops, high above him was indeed a spider web.  Optimus was large for an Autobot, and not nearly so agile that he trusted himself to climb up to get a closer look.  Furthermore, for reasons he didn't quite understand, staring at the web made him feel a little dizzy.  It was impossible for him to get close enough to catch a good look at the thing, but he decided he'd move towards it anyway.  As long as he stayed on the ground, there was no problem in doing that much, and he _was_ curious.

But then, in another tree, farther away from the path left by his companions, he saw the twinkle of one more web.  How peculiar to see two of them so near one another!  He decided to forgo his current target in favor of checking out the other. 

Once he'd arrived some sixty meters that-a-way, however, his optic was caught by yet another distant web.  It was a trail!  He was being led somewhere!

That knowledge should have been his clue that something was amiss.  He should have gone back to base, returned with an army of Elite Guardsmechs, done anything but follow the path laid out for him, wherever it led.  But Optimus remained unswayed.  His spark was resolute, and his processor was feeling a little dim.  He had no choice but to make his way to each new web that beckoned him onward.

He could have walked for a cycle, or maybe just a few kliks - it was hard to say with such heavy fog closing in on his mind.  The background world faded out - the green of the trees, the calls of the birds, the mud beneath his feet; all that was left was him, and the next web, until finally, he reached the end of the trail.

The final web was lower than the others, at ground level for maximum convenience, and it wasn't empty as the rest had been.  There, fastened to the center, was an object, the sheen of its red metal reflecting the sunlight back into Optimus's own optics.  His axe.  He'd found his axe!

Optimus was wary.  It was an obvious trap, he knew as much.  But why?  Why would this spider bother with trying to ensnare him?  What kind of strange mind games was it playing?  And why were his feet moving without his permission?

He was striding towards the web with purpose, reaching out, taking hold of the axe's handle, and pulling it away.  There was a slight tug, as the web refused to yield, but ultimately it gave way, collapsing delicately to the ground before dispersing, just as it had with Cliffjumper the previous night.

"My, my, my!  I put a lot of effort into that thing, and here you go destroying it!"

Optimus whirled around, mind feeling more clear than it had in cycles.  Craning his neck upwards, towards the tree tops, he saw the speaker - a femme, or at least she resembled one.  While much of her frame was that of an ordinary Cybertronian, she also had a great many features that didn't quite seem right.  In some ways, she appeared more arachnid than bot.  And Optimus did not miss the Decepticon badge on her collar either. 

_Oh no._

"So it _was_ a trap," he retorted, unsure of what else to do.  "Though not a very clever one.  You couldn't have been more obvious if you'd spelled it out in neon glyphs."

She laughed at that, leaping down from her sturdy branch to land skillfully on the forest floor.  " _You_ fell for it, didn't you?"

Optimus sputtered.  He had nothing to say to that.

"What's wrong?" she taunted.  "Bug in your voice box?"

He didn't know what kind of game the spider was trying to play, but Optimus was in no mood for it.  "Why have you brought me here?" he spat, brandishing his axe - he'd missed it's familiar weight.

"Easy there, big boy."  She waved her graceful hands in placation.  "I'd prefer if we didn't get into another fight.  The last one was just _so_ one-sided."  Optimus's fingers tightened on his weapon; her words were getting to him.

"Look," she added.  "I even let you have your silly little axe back.  Call it a gesture of good faith."

"So it was you who stole my memories," he growled, standing contrast with her playful tone.

At last, she gave in.  With a dismissive flick of her wrists and a put-upon sigh, she said, "Yeah, that was me.  Now why don't you put away your weapon before I revoke your axe privilege again."

"Who are you?" Optimus pressed, ignoring her request, and taking two menacing steps forward.

His body froze, his limbs grew slack, the axe fell to the ground with a clatter; Optimus had stepped right into another accursed web.

The spider rolled all four of her optics.  "I did warn you, but you never _were_ one to listen."

He watched her approach with hate in his optics, unable to say anything while caught within the web.  She saw the look, and offered a malicious smile.

"But I'll be nice and let you down, provided you don't pull any stunts.  I'm only here to talk.  Sound good?"

Optimus said nothing.  He didn't trust this Decepticon, this _spider_ \- and even if he believed her intentions to be pure, he couldn't have said as much anyway.  She wasn't waiting for his acknowledgement, however.  With a snap of her claws, the web disappeared, and Optimus was dropped unceremoniously to the ground.  He crawled back to his feet with a soft groan.

"You haven't answered my questions yet," he tried to snarl, but after his affair with the web, the threat lacked the bravado of previous assaults.

"Hmm?  What was that?  Who am I?  Why have I brought you here?"  She shrugged, all four arms rising with the motion.  "You sure are demanding for someone in your position."

"Answer me!"

"Well," she danced around him, moving with ease over the muddy ground.  "My identity is not all that important, as you'll have forgotten me in a few cycles time anyway."

"You -"

She leapt in close, spider like limbs moving in fast to inject Optimus with their bite - sparks flew from the contact, and Optimus was knocked back to the ground.

"No interruptions!"  Whereas her earlier tone had been coy, her voice now held a bitter edge - all vitriol.  She reigned in her temper rather quickly, but having seen it once, Optimus knew to look for it.  The blow itself hadn't appeared to cause much damage, which left Optimus a sense of unease.  It couldn't have been as simple as a mere light blow.  It never was with Decepticons.

"What have you done to me?"

The spider narrowed her optics, and Optimus prepared to dodge another assault.  It never came, however.  Instead, she offered only words.  "What did I just tell you, Optimus?"

And that was the most suspicious thing she'd said yet.  His axe lay on the ground where it had fallen, but he still had his grappling hook.  Taking in the surrounding trees, he plotted an escape route, should things get rough, before he at last asked the question that burned in his spark.

"How do you know my name?"

She was caught off-guard, and took a step back, terror in her optics that was not so easily masked this time, though she did eventually manage to regain a shattered semblance of her former composure.

"Ugh, you're so persistent with the questions!  Always gotta know everything, don't you?  Well then, shut your trap for a klik, and I'll answer."

"Go ahead then," Optimus said, frowning deeply.

"Don't sound so reluctant," she laughed.  "Oh well.  Since I can see you're _dying_ to know, I'll give you a name.  It won't matter in a bit, but if you're looking for something to call me in the interim, Blackarachnia will do."

"Blackarachnia?"  He'd seen the name once or twice, listed as the Decepticon's chief science officer.  But military affairs were hardly his line of work, and thus, he'd never learned more than that.  Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something familiar about this femme.

"Sheesh, is there an echo in here?"

Optimus ignored the jab and pressed on.  "And why did you bring me here?"

She fell silent, as though debating her answer.  When she finally spoke, it was with a lot less confidence than Optimus had grown accustomed to over the course of their interaction.

"Honestly, I don't really know.  I knew you were on the island, and I botched our last encounter.  I thought we could try again.  Things have been a little . . . strange between us, and I don't know if I should want to kill you where you stand, or just talk it all out.  Maybe I'll let you decide?"

"You talk like we know each other."

A bitter smile overtook her lips.  "Must we always play this game?"

Optimus tilted his head.  What did _that_ mean?  "I'm sorry, I don't understand."

"Ugh," she groaned.  "What does it matter?"  She turned away dramatically, leaving her back exposed.  Optimus contemplated attacking her then and there - he was sick of being powerless, of not knowing what was happening, and she'd already done as much to him, implied she'd do worse even.  It would be well-deserved.  But somehow, he found his servo stilled.  He was reluctant to hurt this bot.  He didn't understand the reasoning behind it, but the very thought of doing her harm left his spark aching.

The conversation was going nowhere.  If fighting was out of the question, then he figured he'd at least try to get _something_ accomplished.

"Why did you kill Ratchet?"

_That_ got her laughing again.  She turned to face Optimus with a confused grin.  "I'm sorry, who?"

Optimus wanted to be angry, to charge forward in a rage, to punish the bot who had stolen his best friend, and hadn't even known his name, but alas, he still could not bring himself to move.  How infuriating.  "Ratchet was my friend - you killed him."

Blackarachnia blinked at Optimus, as though she suspected she was being played.  "I think you've got the wrong perp.  I haven't killed anyone since arriving on this Hell hole.  The red guy was dead on arrival, and I even _saved_ my sweet little Wasp - well, as best as I could, anyway.  But if you're talking about your medic friend?  Well, that was _all_ Shockwave."

Optimus's head was spinning.  In but a few seconds, she had given him more information than he felt he was able to process.  Where could he begin?

"Wait, Wasp?!  _Wasp_ is on the island?!"  He didn't know how he'd managed it - Wasp was on engine duty when disaster had struck, along with Ironhide, who he supposed could have been the reddish guy.  While he mourned the latter's passing, he'd already thought both to have been dead.  To hear that one was still alive filled his spark with joy.

"Hm?" Blackarachnia tilted her head, a wistful expression in her optics.  "I see you really cared about the guy."

"How did he get here?!  We couldn't find any survivors when we first arrived."

She shrugged again.  "I don't know.  I noticed a strange energy reading some six deca-cycles back and went to investigate, and I found _them_.  The rest of you showed up _quite_ some time after that.  I didn't realize the events were related until Shockwave pointed it out to me."

Optimus frowned.  While the fact that nearly five deca-cycles had passed between Wasp's arrival on the island and their own left his mind reeling, it could be dealt with later, provided he remembered this conversation at all.  It was the other name she uttered that he didn't like.  Much like Blackarachnia, he'd heard the name before, but unlike the spider, he was well-aware of the implications behind it.  Shockwave was a notorious mech, ancient and powerful.  If he was on the island, they had much more to worry about than starving to death.

"So Shockwave is here as well."

"Hmm?" she smiled, coy as ever.  "Oh _dear_ , I have said too much.  He would be _most_ upset to hear about my _unfortunate_ little slip of the tongue."

"And he killed Ratchet."

" _Perhaps_."

"Why?" he persisted.

She knit her optic ridge in response, a surprisingly ordinary motion on an otherwise alien face.  "Do I look like a forty foot, one eyed, heartless aft to you?  Shockwave's reasons for doing the things he does are Shockwave's."  She paused for dramatic tension, before turning to Optimus with a conspiratorial grin. "But if you ask me, it's because the old medic found out about him."

"Found out?"  Optimus pressed.

"Ah yes, yes.  The lord of bland personality has a little secret, and your friend figured it out, but there's no point in telling you any more than that.  This may all just a dream, but I can't risk some tidbits of classified info somehow getting out.  I rather like my spark right where it is."

Optimus shook his head, as though to clear it.  "Wait, a dream?"

She stepped close, offering a flick to the forehead.  "Well duh!  You think I'd bother talking to you outside of one?  Who knows _what_ could happen?"

"I don't understand!"  Optimus protested.  Everything had felt so real up until this point, but now that she mentioned it, the distant tree tops were starting to blur out of existence, and the birds hadn't been chirping for cycles.

"Of course you don't.  You don't get anything!  You can't even remember who _I_ am!  Though I suppose even _you_ wouldn't recognize me after what you did."

"What I did?  What did I do?"

She didn't answer his question.  In fact, her face was growing blurry - he could still see it as a whole, but were he to attempt to pick out any individual features, he would have failed.  The forest was gone; had it ever been there?  Of course not!  They were in a quarry, not a forest!  Back on Archa Seven!  Him and Blackarachnia and Sentinel! 

Something about that sounded wrong to him.

"Well, I suppose at least you still remember _this_!" she spat, before skittering off.

"Wait!  Don't go!  It's dangerous out here!" he called out, giving chase.

But she was gone, and Optimus had suddenly found himself hanging over a pit of spiders - below him, the exact spot where Blackarachnia had fallen to her death.  The spiders had been closing in on all sides, and the two had barely managed to deploy their grappling hooks in time to escape.  Optimus had used his under his own power, but Elita had employed her ability to temporarily copy data from other bots to move by his power as well.  But they had been too far underground, the flight back to the surface had taken too long.

Blackarachnia's power had given out, her grappling hook had vanished just shy of freedom, and she'd fallen so, so far, into the mass of hungry fangs waiting beneath.

_You let me die._

"No!" Optimus cried out.  "I'm sorry!  Blackarachnia, I'm sorry!"

"Blackarachnia!" Sentinel's voice echoed, screaming, pleading, as he ran towards them, as he fought against Optimus's restraining hands to reach his fallen friend.  "We have to go back for her!"

Optimus held fast, knowing that their only choice was to push onward.  There was no helping Blackarachnia now.  She was dead, and it was senseless to throw their own lives away on a lost cause.  He noted with a sense of sick amusement just how much the personalities of himself and Sentinel had changed over the past thousand stellar cycles.  To think that anyone would think of pragmatic _Optimus_ as a soft-spark!

_What am I talking about?_

Nobody had ever called him a soft-spark.  Sentinel, yes, but not himself.  He shook his head to dispel such ridiculous notions, and turned to face his companion.  But Sentinel was nowhere to be found.

"Sentinel?" he questioned, taking a step into the rich, green forest ahead.

He saw no Sentinel, but there were certainly plenty of spider webs.  And right in the center of the path was the biggest of them all.  A familiar figure was held fast to its center, her arms splayed wide like a sacrifice.

"Blackarachnia!  Hold on!  I'm coming to get you down!"

_You killed me._

"I didn't!" he protested, though to whom he was speaking, he wasn't sure.  "It was the spiders!  Please, forgive me!  It was the spiders!"

To his right, Optimus heard a violent crack, and turned just in time to see Bulkhead, leaping about with more agility than his form should have been capable of, wrecking ball flailing wildly, crashing into any tree in his path, and toppling them to the ground.

"Bulkhead, stop it!" Optimus begged.  "You're going to hurt Blackarachnia!"

But Bulkhead didn't stop.  "I have to kill the spiders," he said.  He was nearing Blackarachnia now.  He had to be stopped.  Throwing caution to the wind, Optimus hurled himself at his engineer, tackling him to the ground.

But it was not Bulkhead that lay beneath him, but Blackarachnia, optics offlined and plating grey as death.

_You killed me._

"No!" he cried again, hurling himself away.  He turned tail and fled, all the way back to the quarry.  Sentinel had returned from whence he went, and now stood at the edge of one of those many brown cliffs, contemplating his lance with a frown.

"Sentinel!  I need your help!" Optimus cried out as he fled closer.  "I think Blackarachnia is -" he cut himself off, taking sudden notice of what sat at Sentinel's feet.  Bodies - Bumblebee and Cliffjumper, Jetfire, Jetstorm - all grey and motionless.

"Sentinel?  What have you done?"

"Hold on," Sentinel said, raising a hand to silence Optimus.  "I'm trying to lead here, but Longarm won't let me.  Selfish aft!  Hogging all the bodies!"

Optimus's attention was drawn by a sound behind him - the sharp screech of metal being dragged across solid rock.  With a gut full of apprehension, he turned to face it.

"Longarm?  What are you doing?!"

Longarm marched towards the cliff that Sentinel had already claimed, dragging two more bodies along the ground with him.  To his left was Ratchet's rusting corpse, while at his right was Blurr's.

"I'm leading," he said, with a serene smile, dragging both of his victims to the edge and tossing them over.

_You killed me._

Optimus charged after, hoping that there was still a chance to save the innocent bots, that there was something he could do to right the wrongs his fellow Primes had committed.  His energon froze in his fuel lines once he saw what lay over the side.

Far below him was a mound, stacked nearly as high as the cliff itself, comprised entirely of bodies - Ratchet and Blurr, Bumblebee and Jazz and Bulkhead, Ironhide and Wasp, Blaster, Swerve, Hoist, Sunstreaker, Proteus and Ratbat, and a million other bots he'd failed in his lifetime.

"You killed me!"  The voice that followed him was audible this time - more than a persistent thought.  Optimus turned to face it too late.

He was falling, backwards into the pit - just able to make out the bot who had pushed him - a femme, tall and bright, with plating that glistened in gold and teal, and gentle blue optics that watched him as he descended further and further . . .

_Elita-1._

Blackarachnia was Elita-1!  She was the first bot he'd ever failed, his first big regret.  Even if Sentinel had been the one to talk them into going to the planet (which Optimus believed that he too, regretted, even if he refused to admit it), Optimus had been the one to proclaim her dead, had chosen to leave without even trying to save his friend.  But she was alive!  She was alive and had undergone some kind of mutation.  He didn't know why she looked the way she did, why she had become some kind of techno-organic hybrid.  And he didn't know when or why she'd chosen to become a Decepticon.  But what did any of that matter?

Elita-1 was a alive!  Elita-1 was alive!  Elita-1 was -

What was she? 

Why was Elita-1 on his mind?  She'd died 1000 stellar cycles ago.  He supposed that situation on the island - the death of Ratchet, and the spider webs they'd discovered, _could_ have had something to do with it.  Ratchet had been killed by spiders, just like Elita-1 had. 

Or had he?

Something about that knowledge didn't sit well with Optimus, but he couldn't for the life of him figure out why.

Come to think of it, where was he?  He'd thought he'd been in the woods, but this place was not the forest.  It was black and featureless and made no sense to him.  Was he dead?  Had he been jumped by those spiders as well?

"Optimus, you have to wake up now."

He whipped around, looking for the source of the voice, but it was a pointless effort.  The sound came from all around the encompassing darkness, echoing and rebounding across the nothingness that surrounded him until his head was spinning.

"What?  Who are you?"

The sound stopped the moment he'd uttered those words, leaving him alone in the silence once more.  He didn't like it - the emptiness of solitude was worse than the headache of the dizzying noise.  Left only to his own thoughts, he would surely go mad.

"Optimus," the voice said again, but it was smaller now, more focused, familiar even.  Before his eyes, a figure fell out of the sky - small and lithe, with dark plating and a long face.  Prowl!  Prowl had found him all the way out here!  Optimus was impressed.

"How did you get here?" he asked.

"It's a trick of the mind," was Prowl's cryptic answer.  "No need to worry about the how of it.  But you're passed out in the middle of the forest floor, and your EM field is going crazy.  It seems you're caught somewhere between a nightmare and a hallucination; I'm trying to bring you back to your senses, since you've been kind enough to help me in the past.  But you need to wake up."

There it was again, 'wake up.'  "I don't know how to do that," he said with a worried furrow to his brow.  "I feel like I'm awake already.  I don't know what happened, or how I got here - I know I found out something important, but I can't even remember what that was.  What's happening to me?"

Prowl stared at him for a ponderous moment, folding his arms in contemplation.  He gave no visible sign of discovery; there was no change in his tone or demeanor as he seemed to reach his conclusion.  "There is something I can try," he said at last.  "It may hurt a little, however.  Is that all right?"

"Yes," Optimus said, perhaps with a bit too much enthusiasm.

"Then hold on."  The bot made a hand gesture that Optimus vaguely recognized as some kind of Cyberninja thing.  His body otherwise, remained perfectly still, and a low hum escaped his vocaliser.  The sound was hypnotic, gave Optimus an indescribable sense of serenity.  He felt himself being lulled to sleep, even as Prowl's already dark plating faded into the blackness of his surroundings.

A shock struck through Optimus's being, sending him bolting upright and straight into Prowl's face with a cry of pain.

It took several seconds for him to come to his senses, but once recovered, he realized with a sinking feeling what he'd just done.

"Prowl?  Are you okay?"

Prowl was rubbing at a dent in his jaw, and wearing an annoyed frown, but otherwise seemed to be fine.  "That was my fault.  I should have been ready to move."

"What did you do?" Optimus was grateful to be awake once more, but there was a lingering burn in his circuits that was hard to ignore.  He trusted that Prowl had only his best interest in mind, but the fact of the matter was, he didn't really know Prowl, nor what he was capable of, and thus couldn't trust in his abilities.

Prowl shrugged in response.  "Nothing exciting.  Static shock."  He leapt back to his feet in a fluid motion, and offered a hand to help Optimus to his own.  "But my question is, how did you wind up in such a state?"

Optimus shook his head.  "I don't know.  I was with Bulkhead and Bumblebee, looking for energy sources, and then . . . I can't say.  You talking with me was the next thing I remember.  Obviously something happened between the two."  His optic was caught by an object on the ground, its red paint half-obscured by the thick mud that entombed it.  He knelt down to investigate.

"Is this like last time?  The memory loss that you and the others suffered?"

Optimus pulled the object from the ground, wiping the caked mud from its surface.  It was his axe.  Now how did _that_ get here?  He held it up for Prowl to see.  "I suppose it might be."

"That was taken from you last time, was it not?" Prowl asked, moving in for a closer look.

"Yeah," was Optimus's distracted reply.  How had this gotten here?  If he tried really hard, he could almost remember seeing it fastened to a spider web, but any harder than that, and his memories started to spin and fade, leaving him with a massive processor-ache.

"You don't suppose that you met with our alleged spider again then?"

Scrutinizing the axe gave no further information.  With a resigned sigh, he shoved the thing back into his subspace where it belonged.   "I suppose I probably did.  I wish I could remember."  A thought struck him.  "I don't suppose _you'd_ have a trick that could help me."

"I do not," Prowl said, with an annoyed shake of his head.  "I'm a ninja, not a magician."

Optimus hadn't meant to offend the guy, but he figured it _had_ been somewhat insensitive.  "Sorry, sorry.  I guess I'm just desperate."

"Desperate?"  A sense of mild wonder had overtaken Prowl, though Optimus didn't understand why that might be.

He offered a shrug.  "I can't explain very well, but I feel like I've forgotten something important.  It's different from last time, somehow.  Last time, I never even realized that anything was wrong.  Maybe you woke me up before whatever virus she was using to erase my memories took hold, or - I dunno, maybe she wanted me to remember.  All I know is that, even though the memories themselves aren't there, I still have an impression of the feelings.  They're buried beneath the confusion, but I remember being angry, scared, overjoyed, and sorrowful - the last two were concurrent.  I just - why are you staring at me like that?"  Indeed, Prowl was watching him with a small frown worrying at his mouth.

"She?"  he asked.  What did that mean?

"I beg your pardon?"

"You said 'she,'" Prowl pressed.

"Did I?  I don't think so." 

Prowl was not to be swayed though.  "You said 'she' used a virus to erase your memories, and wondered if 'she' wanted you to remember."

There was no reason to doubt Prowl.  If Prowl said that he'd mentioned a 'she,' then he must have.  But why would he do that?  "You don't suppose . . .?"

"My suspicion is that, while she may have deleted the memories from your processor, she could not delete whatever imprint had been left on your spark."

"In my spark?"  Optimus looked down at his chest, contemplating.  Sparks were a mysterious force - even great minds like Wheeljack and Perceptor couldn't explain them completely.  Did they really have memories of their own?

"It's just my guess.  There's no way to know for certain, unless your memory files are somehow restored.  But in my experience, while the processor may be responsible for many of our emotional responses, emotions as a whole are more complicated than a reaction on our neural net.  Why else would spark-bonding work the way it does?"

Spark-bonding?  Optimus knew of the process, of course.  All bots did.  It was the ultimate sign of loyalty and devotion, to share your very being with another.  But Optimus had never felt close enough to anyone for such a bond - didn't know anyone who had.  It was not a common practice, even though the process was programmed into every Cybertronian.  As such, he had no way of knowing how exactly it worked.

"What do you mean?"

Prowl faltered, if only for a second - as though he'd realized that he'd dug himself into some kind of hole.  Optimus didn't understand it, but he didn't want to scare away Prowl, least of all when he was finally opening up.

"It's all right.  You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

"Hm?  I don't know what you're on about.  I'm fine."  To Optimus's audials, it sounded like a lie, but he didn't call him out on it.  "But like I was saying, two bonded sparks can sort of - relay emotions, and even very simple thoughts between them.  Longing, desire, pain, joy - you can always feel your other half, no matter how far apart you may be.  But all of that is the spark - there's no processor involved. 

"I've seen bonded mechs in the past, wherein one party had received such damage to the processor that they were barely functional, and even then the pair was able to communicate, at least to a small degree."

"So you're saying . . . ?" Optimus prompted, not entirely sure he followed.

"I'm saying that sparks can convey emotion, and that, due to their mysterious nature, are much harder to alter.  Last time, I suspect that, as you must have recovered from whatever 'she' did to you on your own, there was time for your spark to regulate afterwards, so that you were left feeling little more than whatever you would have normally felt at the time.  If that makes any sense?"

Optimus mulled over Prowl's words for a long moment.  He wasn't sure if he understood what Prowl's was saying about sparks in its entirety, but he felt he was grasping the gist of it.  "So you're saying that I was right, I woke up before the process was complete, and therefore, can remember what happened, if only on an emotional level."

Prowl nodded.  "I can't say for certain, but that is my best guess.  Surely you've got a few things lingering from your last brush with 'her,' as well.  They've just been buried deeper.  Have you noticed any difference in you since that night that can't otherwise be explained?"

The answer was obvious.  "I've been having dreams - nightmares really."

"About what?"

"I won't get into much detail, but they've been consistently about a planet I went to as a cadet - a planet that was full of giant spiders."  At the skeptical look Prowl gave him, he continued on, to elaborate.  "The thing is, I was having these dreams before we knew that there were spiders on the island.  And Sentinel, who was also suffering the memory loss, if you recall, was having the same dreams.  I don't know if we'd merely made the spider connection, or if there's more to it than that." Though if there was, Optimus wasn't sure what that could have been.  "But I suppose that might be similar to what is happening now.  Come to think of it, I'm certain that I'm right.  Archa Seven seems like it's very important.  I just wish I knew why."

Prowl opened his mouth to answer, but before any words came out, another voice was sounding in the woods beyond.

"Optimus, is that you?"  Optimus knew that voice well.  It was small and high and very good at interrupting his tense moments with other bots.

"Bumblebee?"

Indeed, Bumblebee came out of the brush shortly after his name was called, flanked closely by Bulkhead and Jazz.

"You sure took your time digging around the stream.  Did you find anything?"  Bumblebee was talking, but it may as well have been in another language, for Optimus didn't understand a word.

"I'm sorry, I was what?"

Bumblebee stepped forward, fixing an incredulous look on Optimus.  "I'll take that as a 'no.'  Which is a shame, 'cause all that time you just spent digging in the dirt was a waste!"

"Excuse me?"

It was Bulkhead to step forward this time.  "Blurr came through.  I don't know where he found it, but he came back to camp with a deca-cycles's worth of raw energon in his subspace for everybody."

"He - wait, what?"

"Yeah!" Bumblebee added.  "Sentinel's out looking for more!"

"I'm sorry, could we back up?  I mean, I'm glad we found energon, but . . . but I admit I'm a little confused."

Jazz raised an optic ridge.  "You doin' all right, Prime?"

"Yeah," Optimus answered.  "I'm just a little groggy still."

"He was attacked by the spider," Prowl added.

Jazz's face grew solemn at that, but Bumblebee was the first to speak up.  "Oh man, I _told_ you that would happen!"

"Actually, I was the one who-" Bulkhead tried to interject, but Bumblebee wasn't having it. 

"They didn't steal anything else this time, did they?  No organs or anything?"

Optimus shook his head.  "Just my memories.  I got my axe back though."

Jazz stepped forward before Bumblebee could respond, placing himself between Optimus and the rest of his entourage.  "I'm sure it's a fascinating story, Prime, but I'm thinkin' - I came out here hoping to find the two of you - didn't so much expect ya'll'd be together, but serendipity and all that.  Thing is, the two of you are probably dying for some fuel, and we got plenty back at base.  He even  managed to pull up some leftover med grade from when _he_ was the injured one, just for you, Prowl.  How 'bout ya'll tell us the all the nitty grittys of your run in on the way back?"

There was something in Jazz's voice that Optimus didn't like.  Jazz wanted them back at base for a reason, and Optimus doubted that reason was lunch.  And while it was generally best to listen to dire advice coming from the Elite Guardsmech, the deal Jazz proposed on the surface was just as pleasing.  Optimus was starving, and he was willing to bet that Prowl was in the same boat.

"Sounds good to me," he conceded.  "Let's get out of here."

~~~

Optimus knew something was wrong the moment they returned to the ship, only to find the door wide open.  Sentinel was paranoid and particular - he'd never allow the such a thing to happen.  With caution, Optimus approached, and urged the others to do the same.

As he drew closer, he could hear within the sound of stuttering vents, shallow and pained - could hear the sound of drilling, of metal hammering metal, of soft whimpers.  Someone was hurt. 

"Hello?  Is everything okay in there?"  He didn't want to wait for an answer.  Preparing for the worst, Optimus stepped through the door.

The first thing to catch his optic was Jetfire, lying sprawled out and unconscious against the far wall, plating scorched, and colors dim, as he just barely clung to life.  He was missing his left arm.

But he was not the source of the sounds that Optimus had heard.  He turned to his left, towards the recharge slab where Longarm stood, working away, while Blurr, his patient, stared across the room with dead, blank optics, wincing every so often.  Stepping closer, Optimus saw that Blurr's chest plating was split wide open, allowing the dull glow of his spark to shine through. 

Optimus froze where he stood, horrified.  What had happened?

"Longarm?  The frag is this!?"  Jazz echoed his sentiment as he stepped into the room, taking in the same sights as Optimus.  The others were quick to follow.  Bumblebee let out a startled cry, and the sudden, heavy vibrations against the floor told him that Bulkhead had stumbled backwards.  Prowl made no visible reaction, but that was to be expected.

Longarm, at last resigned to the fact that he wasn't going to be able to get much work done without offering an explanation, set down his drill and turned to face the others.  Blurr didn't react at all.

His face was solemn, bitter, grave.  Seeing it, Optimus knew that the story was worse than it appeared, though how that was possible, he didn't know.  No amount of speculation, however, could have prepared him to hear of the true horror that had befallen his companions.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The frustration is real.


	28. A Token of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shockwave and Blurr at last tell their story, but will the others buy it?

Shockwave didn't want to be here right now - in the remains of their ship, surrounded by enemies, and explaining how three of their number had turned up dead, while another two were injured.  Blurr had suggested telling a version of events that was more-or-less the truth.  Shockwave didn't like it, but if they were going to stick around, as Blurr wanted, then they'd need _some_ kind of explanation, and Blurr's idea was good as any.  There was just one detail that needed changing.

"I admit, I wasn't there myself.  I got Blurr's call for help, and came running as fast as I could.  By the time I arrived, it was already too late.  Sentinel and Jetstorm were dead, and Blurr and Jetfire were - well . . ." he didn't want to finish the sentence.  He couldn't shake the memory - couldn't dispel the red that had filled his vision when he saw Sentinel and his goons, holding down his precious Blurr, grimy servos wrapped around his very soul.

Lunar cycles ago, he would have let it pass - Autobot personal affairs were none of his business, and it was Blurr's own fault for provoking the beast.  But this wasn't months ago.  After what they'd been through together, the loss of Blurr was no longer worth the possibility of maintaining his cover for a little longer.  It was only a matter of time until someone found out anyway, and it had felt so very satisfying to let his claws dig into Sentinel's plating, to rip him apart, to snuff out his spark with his bare hands.  If he'd had a chance to go back and do it again, he would have made the same exact choice.

"Sentinel and Jetstorm are dead?" Optimus asked, optics flickering in shock.

"Yes," Shockwave nodded.

"What about Cliffjumper?" Jazz pressed.  "You mentioned a third death, and he ain't here right now."

Jazz was going to be a problem.  While the question was innocuous enough, it highlighted his uncanny ability to sniff out the holes in a story.  The mech was too good at his job.

"Blurr didn't know for certain, but we're fearing the worst."

"You've gotta be kidding me!" an angry shout came from the back of the room - Bumblebee.  "What in the Pit could have happened out there?!  Why are the spiders going after the Elite Guard?"  Bumblebee, on the other hand, could always be counted on to have no idea what was going on.  If only they were all that stupid.

Before Shockwave had a chance to respond, however, Blurr was struggling to sit up, an answer on his lips.

"Blurr don't, you're going to hurt yourself further."  His protestation was ignored, however.  In the brief time Shockwave had spent operating on his beloved speedster, he'd only succeeded in removing the crumpled metal around his spark, leaving its blinding blue light to shine through unhindered.  Shockwave couldn't hold back a growl as more memories flashed through his mind - _his_ Blurr, helpless and begging as those dirty creatures sullied him with their unworthy fingers.  His claws itched to finish off Jetfire here and now, but Blurr had begged him not to, and how could he refuse those sweet optics?

Blurr clutched his servos over his gaping chest, shielding the fragile life force within.  He looked at nothing, saw nothing, but traumatized as he was, his mind was still sharp.

"Cliffjumper had found out that Sentinel was the one who planted the explosives on the ship."

The room erupted in chaos following the statement, as every mech reacted at the same time - disbelief, despair, shock.

"What do you mean?" Optimus demanded.  "How?"

Shockwave suppressed another possessive growl, stepping between the two.  "Keep your voice down."

Blurr, for his part, didn't seem too bothered by the reactions.  "I don't know more than that.  He didn't leave a lot of details in the message, as Sentinel was trying to kill him at the time, but I'd imagine the information is available on his computer, if you really want to know."  He spoke with the same speed as usual, but there was a definite strain to his voice, as though the effort - either to make sound, or control the tempo, caused him physical pain.

"Blurr," Shockwave cooed.  Blurr flinched away from his touch, soft as it was.  It made Shockwave's spark clench in pain.

"So you sayin' Cliffjumper found out Sentinel's big secret, and so the big boss tried to silence him," Jazz surmised.

"That's correct."

The irritating investigator paused for a long moment, stroking his chin as he thought it over.  Shockwave bristled, angry that Blurr's words were being deliberated so.  He was telling the truth!  It shouldn't have been that difficult to understand.

"That actually . . . that makes a lot of sense, come to think of it.  I betcha he got the twins in on it as well.  Think we'll be having a nice chat with Jetfire once he's up."

"He didn't tell _you_ anything?" Optimus asked.

"I knew he didn't want the ship to land, but we weren't as tight as you seem to think.  I ain't so eager to please as the twins were, so _he_ was less than eager to let me in on his more, subversive schemes, if you catch my drift."  He turned his attention back to Blurr.  "But where do you come in, in all this?  Playin' rescue bot again?"

"I came to help him when I got the call, but he was already gone.  There was energon everywhere - Sentinel was covered in it.  I don't know what I was thinking - I was angry, desperate, and - and I thought I could still save him if I could get to him fast enough, so I attacked Sentinel."

A hush fell over the room.  Attacking a Prime was a serious crime, especially one so high-ranked as Sentinel.  On the other hand, with circumstances as they'd been, Shockwave couldn't imagine that anyone blamed Blurr for what had happened.  Everyone had known that he'd cross the line and kill one of his own subordinates sooner-or-later.  Ironically, preemptively removing the threat he provided was just the sort of action that Sentinel himself would have advocated for.

"Is that how you -"  Bumblebee gestured vaguely around his own chest to mirror Blurr's injury.

A dark intensity overtook Blurr's EM field, strong enough to make Bumblebee flinch backwards.  "I was jumped by Jetfire and Jetstorm.  They held me down, and Sentinel tried to rip out my spark."

"But you survived."  Jazz was suspicious still - the _nerve_ of him.  Shockwave's fists tightened; the blunt metal of his fingers felt wrong, too weak, too gentle.  He missed his claws.  "How'd you pull _that_ off?"

It was time for the moment of truth - could Blurr tell the next part of the story without incriminating Shockwave?  Shockwave had his doubts.

"Blurr's been through a lot.  I really _would_ like to get him patched up."  Why had he said that?  He knew how incriminating the timing of his comment was, and he hated his spark for betraying him so.  Fear just wasn't a feeling he was used to dealing with, or knew how to handle.  It was going to get him in trouble sooner or later, if hadn't already.

"I'm fine," Blurr snapped back without missing a beat.   "It's important that they know.  We can wait at least that long."  And there was Blurr, not afraid in the slightest - though at this point, what did _he_ have to fear?

"I don't really understand what happened myself - my body was in the process of shutting down, my processor was racing, faster than it normally does.  But I remember being saved by - by what I can only think to describe as some kind of monster."

A twinge of betrayal struck Shockwave deep within, that Blurr should choose to describe him with such a word, but it was promptly extinguished.  Blurr was an Autobot - of course he would think such things about Shockwave's kind.  He'd have cure him of that unfortunate habit.

"I'm curious," Jazz said.  "Tell us about it."

Blurr's attention turned to his servos still held tightly over his chest.  "He was huge, powerful -took down Sentinel, and Jetfire and Jetstorm like it was nothing - shot the twins with an energy cannon, destroyed Sentinel with its own claws.  I don't know why it left me alive - maybe it just didn't see me, or maybe it didn't care.  I don't know - it just sort of left."

Jazz took another infuriating moment to ponder over Blurr's words before asking his next question.  "The monster - was it organic or mechanical?"

"Mechanical."  Shockwave didn't like it - this turn of events would do well to keep Blurr out of trouble, but it wasn't doing _him_ any favors.  He knew well-enough that Jazz, and probably Optimus and Prowl, at least, did not trust him, and anyone with optics could see that he had a motive to kill Sentinel.  His only hope was that no one was able to connect him with the monster that Blurr spoke of.  Well, there was _one_ way he could lessen the suspicion on him, at least a little.

"I saw some footprints left at the scene, the creature should have been at least thirty feet tall, probably more.  Call me paranoid, but you didn't see if it was a Decepticon, did you?"

Blurr looked up with a start, optics locked on Shockwave's own - not Longarm's facsimile, but his true one, the bulb at the center of his forehead.  "It was, yes."

"Do you think you could identify it?"

Hesitation overtook Blurr, as though he wasn't sure what Shockwave wanted him to say.  He looked away.  "I don't know.  Like I said, I was a bit overwhelmed at the time.  I wasn't exactly running facial recognition."

Shockwave wasn't done yet, however.  "Do you remember anything at all - any distinguishing features?"

"Well," Blurr said, choosing to fix his optics on the ground now.  "It had no face, except for one great, red eye.  Does that help?"

"It may," Shockwave said with a frown.  "Large, faceless, and clawed describes many Decepticons, and while not all of them use a cannon as their signature weapon, any one _could_ feasibly get their servos on -"

"Shockwave."

Shockwave froze at the sound of his own name, cut off mid-sentence.  Was that an accusation?  Did Optimus know?  He didn't - _couldn't_.  He was guessing, obviously.  With deliberate movements, Longarm turned from his beloved to face the other Prime, glad that Blurr had been the only one privy to his fearful expression.  He forced himself to stay calm, and said, "Shockwave?"

"He's got all of those traits, doesn't he?"

"I suppose so, yes," Shockwave conceded.  "Though for our sakes, I hope you're wrong."

Optimus's frown turned deep.  "He's on my mind for some reason.  I wonder if I met him before my memories were taken."

Shockwave tilted his head.  "I'm sorry?  Are you referring to the previous event, or did you have another run-in with the spider?"

"Earlier today," Optimus confirmed.  "You don't suppose they're working together?"

Of course.  Blackarachnia couldn't follow simple instructions for one, measly day.  And to make matters worse, she'd apparently been spreading rumors of his presence to the enemy.  _That_ would have to be dealt with promptly.  "Anything is possible, I suppose.  It will be something for us to look into.  For now, I'm just happy to know that Blurr is still alive - and Jetfire," he added as an afterthought.

Naturally, Jazz read into this as well.  "You don't think that Sentinel was his target, and the others were attacked for being in the way?"

Shockwave liked this speculation, mostly because it didn't do much to implicate himself, while not being completely untrue.  Jetfire and Jetstorm had committed grievous sins, true, but they were too stupid, too blindly loyal to the devil himself, for him to take nearly as much quarrel with them.  Though they still deserved punishment for what they'd done.  He tried to will the anger away from his voice before he spoke.  It wouldn't do to slip up again.

"It makes sense," he said, tapping his chin guard.  "I have no doubt he knew of Sentinel's position, at the very least.  Why he chose that exact moment to strike, and what this means for the rest of us, I can't say."

"Well then, where do we go from here?"

"I beg your pardon?"  He knew why Jazz was asking _him_ of all mechs this question, but he couldn't hide his surprise.  Jazz wouldn't trust him to lead the camp - this was some kind of a test, though Shockwave wasn't sure of the parameters.  He waited for Jazz to elaborate.

"You're the big boss now, highest ranked Prime, yeah?  You're callin' the shots."

It was not a position Shockwave much cared to be in.  He'd landed himself in a place of great responsibility, and even greater scrutiny.  To deny it outright would be too suspicious.  He frowned.

"Right now, my biggest concern is repairing Blurr and Jetfire, which means I want the rest of you to clear out for a few cycles.  For the time being, I'll leave you in Optimus's capable servos."  He turned to the other Prime.  "Here's your shot.  Do what you think is best."

It seemed a reasonable response, and he felt completely justified in shirking his leadership duties for his medical duties.  Even _Jazz_ couldn't take issue with that.

Optimus thought over his next course of action for a long moment, frowning all the while.  At least he was taking his job seriously, which was more than could be said of his predecessor.

"I'd like to recover the bodies, provide a proper funeral.  They deserve that much.  It will double as an investigation.  We'll see if we can confirm what happened, and maybe figure out where Shockwave went from there.  Longarm mentioned footprints, we might be able to track them."

"Not a bad plan," Shockwave agreed.  He was confident, at least, that he had left no traceable trail.

This time, it was Bumblebee's turn to speak up.  "Investigate bodies?"  He shuddered.  "Can I just ah - sit this one out?"

Longarm and Optimus turned as one to glare at him.

"You can't stay here," Shockwave asserted.  "There's some delicate work I need to do.  I can't have _any_ distractions."

"But - "  Bumblebee tried to protest.

"No one wants to bury their friends," Jazz offered, laying a hand on Bumblebee's shoulder.  "And I know you still hung up on Ratchet, but this'll be good for you - real field experience."  The mech _did_ have some use after all. 

"Field experience" Bumblebee repeated, a change creeping into his voice, removing his apprehension.  "I guess if _you_ think it's for the best."

"I'll send you the coordinates," Shockwave piped up, eager to get the others out so he could work on Blurr in peace.  Fortunately, there were no more hurdles.  Optimus and his crew were quickly sent off to a crime scene that they'd get no answers from, while Shockwave was left with what he really wanted.  Or so he'd thought.

Instead, when he tried to lay Blurr back down on the operating table, he was met with protestation. 

"Blurr?"

"Don't touch me!" he shrieked, struggling against Shockwave's hands.  "Don't touch me, don't touch me!"   Shockwave released him.

The second he was free, Blurr was bolting, not for the door, as Shockwave feared, but towards Jetfire, still lying against the wall.  He slid to the floor mid-stride and came to a halt, crouching beside the inert body and staring blankly.  Shockwave didn't like it.  It was an irrational thing to do, and moreover, made his own job quite difficult.

"Blurr," he said in his real voice, as low and gentle as he could manage.  Blurr stiffened, but did not face him.  So he tried again. 

"Blurr, I need to fix you.  There's still shards of broken glass in your spark chamber that need to come out at the very least, and we still have to cover that hole, before something else gets in there.  Come back here."

Blurr drew his knees to his chest and fell the rest of the way to the ground, shaking his head, his eyes still fixed on Jetfire.  "Fix him."

"Blurr, I told you.  Your injuries come first."

Blurr was not having it though.  He began to shake his head faster and faster, beyond visual perception, and he repeated the words again and again, as though glitched.

That was enough.  Shockwave strode over  to where Blurr sat, and grabbed his arms, in an effort to pull him back to the table.  That only served to worsen his reaction; he fought back, shrieking and struggling, and Shockwave ultimately had to cease in his efforts, for fear of Blurr hurting himself in his frenzy.  Why did Autobots have to be so weak?  Blurr, once freed, bolted again, this time back to the operating table, which he curled up underneath, as if the flimsy thing could protect him.

It was time for a different tactic.  "I can put you under, if that would help," he said, approaching slowly.  "I know it can't be easy to have anyone's hands so close to your spark after what happened, but it's something that must be done.  Surely, you understand."

"Go away," was what he was met with.  Shockwave was rapidly losing patience.  Blurr was in no state to listen to words; he would just have to go back to action and deal with the consequences as they arose.  He extended his arms, wrapped one around Blurr's legs, the other around his shoulders.  Predictably, Blurr began to shriek and flail again, as best as he could.

"Blurr, I'm not going to hurt you.  Calm yourself."

"Let go, let go!  You monster!  Monster, monster, monster!  Let me go!"  His words repeated again, faster and faster and faster, until even Shockwave, with his quick processing speed could not parse them.  Blurr continued to struggle in his grasp, as he was pulled away from his hiding spot, and back towards Shockwave.

"Stop struggling, before you -"

Shockwave stopped speaking the same time Blurr did.  The little bot's voice had shorted out, whole body frozen in shock, head thrown back, with wide, pained optics.  A spark or two shot off his buzzing frame.  It was as Shockwave had feared.

He worked quickly, releasing Blurr back onto the slab, and grabbed a pair of forceps.  Just as expected, Blurr's flailing had managed to embed a shard from his shattered windshield into his spark - it was always something, wasn't it?  Shockwave removed the glass with haste, and Blurr's entire frame relaxed instantly.  Even with Shockwave - _Longarm's_ form positioned as it was, he didn't bother struggling again.  He rolled his head to the side to stare at the far wall.

"I did try to tell you.  There is glass in your spark chamber, Blurr.  It is dangerous to leave it there, so I must take it out.  I'm not here to hurt you, but there is not much I can do if you insist on hurting yourself," he said, already on the hunt for more glass.  It was easy enough for his Optic to pick out dead material among all that living metal and energy, and Blurr allowed him to finish without fighting back.

"Now the trouble is going to be patching up this hole."  He took a step back, tapping his chin guard again, as he'd taken to doing while thinking.  This time, as he moved, Blurr _did_ turn to look at him.

"Trouble?"  His voice was tired and weak, but more lucid than it had been since they'd left the crime scene.  Before, Longarm would have met his question with a smile and reassurance, but Blurr would have seen through that.  There was no need to upset him further.  Transforming into Shockwave would have been ideal, but he didn't dare.  Not here, not when Jazz or any of the others could have chosen to ignore his orders, and return at any moment.  He'd have to settle for altering his behavior only.

Thus, it was with a face devoid of expression, that he spoke.  "We're running low on suitable material to use for welds, and I have no intention of using random bits of scrap metal on _you._   You deserve only the best."  This time, he did smile, unconscious though the action was.  Blurr immediately averted his gaze.

"Use scrap on me.  It's what you did for Prowl - I'm no different.   I don't want to be different - I'm not special, and I don't deserve any better - in fact, I probably deserve worse - I know I deserve worse.  I attacked Sentinel, I allowed myself to harbor _you_ \- what's wrong with me?!"

Shockwave laid a gentle finger across his lips, in an effort to hush him.  His energy had been spent on the previous struggle; he'd given up on fighting, for the moment, at least, and allowed himself to be silenced.

"You're wrong, Blurr.  I will hear none of this kind of talk from you, it is damaging and entirely unwarranted.  Do you understand me?"

Blurr said nothing, went back to staring at the far wall.  He hadn't quite been won over yet, and Shockwave feared he never would be.  Blackarachnia was right - Blurr had seen his true face, and though he hadn't taken off running, it was clear that not all of the anguish he suffered stemmed from his run-in with Sentinel.  It would be foolish to pretend otherwise.  But Shockwave was nothing, if not patient, or perhaps 'stubborn' was the proper word?  Maybe, what Blurr needed, was a token of his love?  He looked down at his own chest.

"What are you doing?"  Blurr's voice pulled him from his calculations several seconds later.  He didn't have an answer just as of yet, but he had taken in the measurements of the hole in Blurr's chest, and compared it with his own, thicker plating. 

His chest plating came in three layers, and as Longarm, his body was compacted enough that all three sat over his spark chamber.  Even in his true form, he could stand to lose one without leaving himself exposed.  He grabbed a laser scalpel, marking Blurr's measurements onto his white, top-plate, and began to cut.

"Shockwave?!  What are you - stop it, you're hurting yourself!"  Blurr had sat up by now, and his fingers twitched, as though he wanted to pull the tool out of Shockwave's servos, but he didn't dare, for fear of causing more damage.  Perhaps there was a spark of something there, after all.  And while cutting into his own plating was, in fact, painful - it ranked rather low on the scale of Shockwave's long existence.  The pain barely registered.

"Blurr, I know you are recovering still, and you aren't functioning at optimal capacity," he removed the plate from his chest without so much as a shriek of metal.  It had been a clean cut, all the more impressive for working with these stubby fingers.  With one hand, he pressed against the darker blue plating of Blurr's belly, pushing him back down on the table.  Again, he was met with no resistance.

"But you seem to have forgotten that my name is _Longarm_.  The others are hunting Shockwave right now, for the murder of Sentinel and Jetstorm, if you'll recall."  Blurr fell silent at the reminder. 

Shockwave matched the metal sheet of his thinner outer plate against the hole in Blurr's chest.  It was a perfect fit.  He immediately set to work welding it in place, while Blurr made an admirable effort of not whimpering beneath the pain. 

"Personally, while he may be notorious, even among the ranks of Decepticons, I can't help but feel a little thankful.  If he hadn't acted as he had, then I would have lost you today.  And that, I cannot accept."  He worked awhile longer in silence, ignoring the smell of molten metal, that he would have normally so enjoyed.  With Blurr as its source, however, he felt only a deep sense of illness.

He said no more as he operated, and Blurr kept silent too, both fallen into an uncomfortable silence, until Shockwave had at last finished.  He took a step back to admire his work.  It was a clean job - Blurr's plating looked nearly factory-fresh, the white of the chest plate nearly matching the whites that already highlighted Blurr's frame in places, and it might have even suitably fooled any who did not know him, were it not for the fact that the bold red face of the Autobot faction symbol was a bit oversized for his smaller frame, narrower chest.  Shockwave noted with amusement, that the same symbol still painted his own chest, though it was faded, and didn't stand out so much against the darker grey that now surrounded it.

"It is finished," he said, once certain that he was satisfied, and backed up several paces more.  With Shockwave a suitable distance away, Blurr sat up, taking in the new, temporary fixture for himself.  His twisted frown showed his distaste, but the rest of his body was lax, resigned.  It was not an ideal solution, but the best available. 

When he spoke, it was not with gratitude or resentment, but determination.  "Okay, you have fixed me, I suppose.  Congratulations.  Now that that's done, are you going to get Jetfire back up on his feet?  You can't leave him like this.  You promised me you wouldn't leave him like this."

When Shockwave didn't answer, Blurr took it upon himself to cross the room, and move Jetfire's heavier body, half dragging him back to the recharge slab.

"Blurr, stop that!  You're going to hurt yourself," Shockwave protested, before jumping in to help him.

"Help him!  Help him now!  I'm fine, there's no reason why you can't fix him!"  Blurr's optics were glowing with desperation, as he repeated his demands over and over again.  It seemed he hadn't quite come to his senses yet. 

"I told you already, I will not let him die, if only because you so insist, but I cannot have him coming to, only to spill what he saw to the others."

"It's no different than the story _we_ told.  And he'd just lost his brother - half of his own spark!  He was in pain, a lot of pain - I was there, I saw it!  Do you really think he was up for noticing minute details in the middle of _that_?"

Blurr had a point.  A sparkbond _was_ a powerful force, and the death of a bondmate was akin to experiencing one's own death.  There were many widowers whose sparks gave out during the process, and those who survived were never the same.  How much of a threat would Jetfire be should he wake up?  It was unlikely he would be a threat at all, but Shockwave was not willing to take the risk.

He let out a heavy sigh as resignation kicked in.  What an irritating situation to be in. 

"I yield, Blurr.  If it is so important to you that your would-be killer, vile, stupid creature that he is, is revived to live a half-life of pain and emptiness, then I shall acquiesce to your desires.  But I will not allow him to be a threat, to you or I, or our future happiness."  He pried open Jetfire's medical hatch, and jacked in, ignoring any argument that Blurr tried to make.

Blackarachnia had been the one to develop the memory virus, but she was not the only one that knew how to employ it.  While Shockwave had never used the virus himself, he had studied the theory behind it, and even considered ways to refine and elaborate upon her initial idea; no bot could deny that he was an excellent scholar.  With ease, he broke through Jetfire's stuttering firewall, hacked into his processor, and targeted his most recent memories - the memories of seeing Shockwave.   

He could not see them, and could not alter them, but he could at least erase what was there.  And while ordinarily, the virus obliterated at least a cycle's worth of memories, Shockwave had managed to lessen its effects, reducing the deleted files to the span of a few kliks instead.  In this case, if Jetfire had known anything important - for instance, where Cliffjumper's body had been dumped, then he could still pull those up, if need be.  Once confidant in a job-well-done, Shockwave withdrew.

"What did you do to him?" Blurr demanded, though with little resolution in his voice.

"I implanted a virus that will target and remove certain memories.  It is a necessary precaution; you understand."

"Is he going to be all right?"

"Yes," Shockwave said, an annoyed edge to his voice.  His life would be so much easier if Blurr had chosen to resent his attacker.  "He should wake in a few cycles time, though I must reiterate that I am against this."

It was enough.  Blurr backed down, and stepped away, back to looking at nothing again.  It filled Shockwave with unease.

"Blurr?" he said, wrapping a comforting arm around Blurr's waist.  He stiffened beneath the touch, but did not fight him off.  "What's on your mind now?  It pains me to see you like this.  I wish to make it better."

"Don't talk like that," Blurr muttered, barely audible.  Shockwave couldn't suppress his laughter.

"It is the truth.  Would you rather I speak in lies?" Despite the mirth he felt, there was none in his voice.

"I don't believe you.  You're nothing but a liar and a monster whose been deceiving me the whole time.  Our entire relationship is built on a lie!  How could I ever trust anything that comes out of your mouth ever again?  I can't!  Say whatever you want about how you feel, you know I can't accept it."

Shockwave unwound his arms, stepping away with an exasperated sigh.  "Yes, I am aware of this, though I don't understand why you continue to fight me.  My feelings for you are not divorced from Longarm's feelings for you, and if you would look, you could see it.  You carry a piece of myself within your own frame now - that would not be the case if I felt otherwise."

Blurr shuddered, looking down at the new fixture on his chest.  He deflated, as though he knew he could not win this argument, though no burst of affection filled his EM field either.  It was still to be a long struggle between them.

Blurr turned back to face him, looking down to meet his true optic, face unsure and fists clenched.  "So what now?  Where are we to go from here?  Do we pretend that nothing is different between us?  Do I keep on lying for you?  Covering for you and your blunders?  Are the others going to track you down - track me down?  Do you have any plan at all?  And where do you think this will all end up?  Do you think I will gladly join the Decepticons for you, because if you do, I can assure you that you are wrong."  He was speaking fast, faster than normal.  Shockwave could just barely make sense of the words - he had a feeling that Blurr was having trouble regulating the speed of his speech.

"Blurr, calm down.  You've been through much today, you need some quiet."  He stepped closer, guiding Blurr to the corner that they'd claimed of late, and with gentle movements, placed his hands on either of Blurr's shoulder pauldrons, pushing him to the ground.  "Don't fret about these things; that is for me to deal with.  You rest for now, let your spark and processor recover from the trauma, and leave the frightening decisions to me, at least until you are well again.  In the meantime, act as you see fit to - if you want to act as you have been, that is fine, if you want to avoid me, it is also understandable.  No one can find your actions suspicious so long as you are still recovering, so do what you think will aid you to get well.  That is all I require right now."

Blurr looked as though he wanted to protest, but even _he_ couldn't deny that Shockwave was right about needing rest.  While Shockwave very much hoped that Blurr would chose to go back to their old behaviors, would chose to allow him to provide the comfort that he'd been so good about providing in the past, it did not appear that Blurr was ready for such things.  He scooted along the wall, away from Shockwave.

"Some of that makes sense, I'll concede.  You win then, if only because I really am very tired, and resting sounds, in theory, like a good idea.  I'd like to try anyway.  But I don't want you touching me right now.  And when I wake up, I want more answers.  You can't dodge these questions forever, and you can't expect me to keep playing your game blindly.  I still have a _little_ self-preservation left."

"This is fair," Shockwave conceded, stepping away.  "Good night, Blurr.  Sleep well."

While his words were calm, his spark was not.  The temporary rejection was easy enough to deal with, but Blurr's request for answers was one that Shockwave feared he could not provide.  In all honesty, he had no plan.  He was wandering blind, and dragging Blurr along with him.  He had no future planned for the two of them - knew that if he thought too long about it, he would confirm what he already knew - that the they could never be together, and that happiness was an impossibility.  Blurr would never accept that as a solution.  And though one more failed relationship was objectively not something worth fearing, least of all for a mech who had danced with death longer than most had been alive, he could not deny that he was terrified of what the future entailed, terrified of losing Blurr. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've given up all hope of accurate estimates. Also, 10:30 upload. Nice~


	29. Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz investigates, and ends up with more than he'd bargained for.

The crime scene was every bit as terrible as Blurr had described it.  There was energon everywhere, seeping into the drying earth, splattering the surrounding trees, painting the clearing in a violent shade of pink.  Jetstorm's body lay on its back - colorless, empty face staring up at the sky, frozen in slack-jawed horror, while his chest had been blasted wide open in a perfectly rounded hole.

Jazz grit his teeth and steeled his tanks.  The image would haunt him for millennia - Jetstorm hadn't deserved this.  He'd been sweet and energetic, naive, true, but always wanting to do good.  He felt a flare of resentment for Sentinel Prime, that he had allowed this young bot who trusted him with his life to die, and for what?

Of course, Sentinel himself had gotten the worse end of the deal.  As Blurr had said, Jetstorm had been killed instantly with an energy cannon, but Sentinel 's body had been torn apart, and Jazz had a hunch that most of the energon that stained the ground belonged to him.  It implied a violent death, one that had lasted longer than a few seconds.  It was an effort to disconnect himself from the scene, to not be swept away by raw emotion, by fear and sorrow and the cry for vengeance.  He couldn't afford weakness right now.

He felt Bumblebee press close behind him, shuddering.

"You okay, Little Bee?" he said, voice gentle.

"No."  Bumblebee pressed closer yet.  "This is so messed up!  Why does this keep happening?!  We were doing so well!  Why is it that every time we finally make some progress, somebody has to die?!  It's not fair!"

Jazz wanted to turn around, offer the little guy a comforting smile, a shoulder to lean on, but he was holding on like a leech, rendering such a movement impossible.  Instead, he let out a weary sigh.  "Almost like somebody don't want us getting home."

"I'm not sure I agree."  Prowl stepped forward, kneeling down to get a better look at Sentinel's lifeless shell.

"No?"

"The primary force behind getting us home - providing us food, locating us, building a device to contact the outside, has been entirely Longarm Prime and Blurr.  If someone wanted us to stay here, then would it not make more sense to kill _them,_ instead of the mech who has arguably hindered us the most?

"Prowl!" Optimus snapped, aghast.

"You can't deny it.  Sentinel Prime did little more than turn us against one another from the start.  Forgive me for speaking ill of the dead just this once."  He rubbed unconsciously at the welds over his stomach.

Optimus turned aside at that, refusing to meet Prowl's optics.  "I understand, and I know you're right.  It's just . . . " he trailed off into silence.

"You was friends from way back, yeah?"

Optimus nodded.  "It's hard for me to accept that he's gone.  And maybe he deserved it.  He hurt you," he gestured to Prowl, "and Blurr, killed Cliffjumper most likely, and apparently sabotaged the ship.  He'd done some awful things in his life, it's just . . ." 

Prowl shot Jazz a meaningful look.  " _I need to talk with you later,_ " it said.  Jazz found himself in agreement.  Prowl had blamed himself for the destruction of the ship.  Would he so easily believe that it was Sentinel who was truly to blame?  Jazz wasn't even sure that _he_ did.  A feeling nagged at him, told him there was more to the story still.

Optimus continued, without noticing the exchange.  "I suppose none of this really matters.  This scene is a mess, but let's see what we can make of it.  Jazz, Prowl - you're on footprint duty.  Try and see if you can't figure out where Shockwave came from, and where he went.  Bulkhead, you'll be helping me with the bodies, if that's fine by you."

"Y-yes Sir," he responded, though his face was pale, his voice weak.

"What about me?" Bumblebee squeaked, poking his head out from behind Jazz.

"Do you feel comfortable being part of this investigation?" 

Bumblebee popped back behind Jazz at the words, letting out another shudder.  "No, I don't.  Everyone's dying and I hate it."

There was no change in Optimus's face, but Jazz could feel his disappointment with Bumblebee, even from across the clearing.  However, Bumblebee wasn't finished yet.

"But it's worse to be here doing nothing.  What can I do to help?  I'll do anything you need.  I'm not some weak little protoform.  I'm gonna be Elite Guard someday!"

It might have been Jazz's imagination, but he swore he saw the barest hint of a smile on Optimus's lips.

"Go ahead and assist Jazz and Prowl."

"Yes sir!"

The three of them got to work right away, giving their best effort to find anything of use in the chaotic mess of drying mud.  Shockwave's footprints were the easiest to spot, by virtue of being the biggest, the deepest, but even so, the earth seemed to have been soft enough that most prints had been half-filled in the moment they were made, and Shockwave's gait was long, and improbably uneven.  It was difficult to track his movement through the battlefield.   Even further impeding their efforts, however, was a certain set of treads imprinted upon the ground, stopping and turning, presumably to pick up passengers, before making their way in the direction of camp.

 Longarm had sabotaged much of the crime scene, whether knowingly -so or not.  Jazz didn't like it at all.  And yet, it was impossible to lay blame on him; Longarm had done what he felt needed to be done, prioritized the living over the dead.  In his position, Jazz would have done the same.  Intent didn't stop the situation from being a pain in the aft, however.  He held back the urge to groan. 

This investigation was going nowhere.  Even if Longarm, the weather, the chaos of battle had not produced an unreadable crime scene, Jazz very much doubted he would  have found any conclusive information.  Shockwave was not a stupid mech, could not have survived as long as he had - lived through _two_ great wars, were he careless enough to leave a trail.  If they _did_ find one, then something had gone very wrong indeed.

"Please tell me I'm not the only one who can't make any sense of this," Bumblebee griped, sitting on his haunches, glaring at a patch of mud. 

"I'm lost as you," Jazz said with a shrug.  "The field's a mess.  I can't make heads or tails of it.  Unless _you_ got something, Prowl?"

Prowl stood further away, staring at an energon-saturated patch of ground with a solemn frown.  "Maybe.  I believe that this is where Cliffjumper died."

"Oh?" Jazz leapt closer, mindful of his own footprints.  Bumblebee followed closely behind.  "'Cuz of the energon?"

Prowl shook his head.  "It's the spark energy - it's particularly strong in this spot, which would be indicative of a major event, and the sensation I get is not unlike that of Cliffjumper's own EM field, albeit weaker."

An impressed whistle escaped Jazz's lips.  "You really sensitive to this kinda thing, ain't you?  You got anything else?"

"Maybe."  Prowl circled the battlefield, EM field stretched wide, face overwhelmed with concentration.  He circled each of the bodies, examining not only the earth, but the surrounding air as well.  His was a most-impressive talent.  Perhaps there was a little credence to his claim of being named Master Yoketron's successor, after all.  His physical skills still left much to be desired, but the bot had an immeasurable potential that even _Jazz_ could never hope to match.

It seemed as though Prowl was on the trail; Jazz was content to let him take the lead - there was little he could contribute at the moment.  Rather, it seemed his skill was required elsewhere.

Bumblebee stood beside him, wearing an admirably brave face, but it was difficult to keep secrets from Jazz.  His EM field flickered wildly, belying his unease, his fear.  The kid wasn't taking this well at all.

"Bee?  You all right?"

"Yeah!" he said, too forcefully to be true.  "I'm great!" 

Jazz didn't say anything, he didn't have to.  He stared at Bumblebee, long and hard, knowing that the little bot would cave beneath his gaze.  He was admirable for a civilian, but he was surrounded by Primes and Elite Guardsmechs.  He may have thought himself a manipulative genius, but he was easy to play. 

Predictably, he faltered, slowly at first, still trying to put up a brave front.  Then it all came crashing down at once.

"Okay, no I'm not!" he whined.  "I feel awful, and I don't even understand it!  Cliffjumper's dead!  I _just_ talked to him, a few cycles ago.  We invited him to come out with us, remember?  And now he's gone, and he's never gonna talk with us again!  Or anyone!  It doesn't make any _sense_!  First Ratchet, and now everybody else!  Why won't it stop?!  Who's next?"

Jazz shook his head, wearing a piteous smile.  "That's just how life turns out, 'Bee.  Sometimes slag like this just happens - ain't nothing no one can do about it.  It sucks, believe me it does.  But you gotta keep pressing on."

Bumblebee was shaking again.  "How can you be so calm about this?"  It was no accusation, merely a question, asked with a shuddering voice.  "You're always so cool all the time, but you're Elite Guard.  Do you see this kind of thing a lot?"

"Maybe not _a lot_ , but I've seen my fair share of death.  It ain't easy to accept, even now."

"Then how can you always be so calm and collected?  I thought that this kind of thing would be easy to deal with.  And then Ratchet died.  And even now, I can't get that image out of my head.  All of the blood and - and my _friend_ lying dead beneath a tree!  And then _this_ happens!  I can't even imagine having to live with more of this.  How do you deal?"  He wrapped his arms around himself, in a weak embrace.  It caused a twinge in Jazz's spark.  The poor kid was still so young - Jazz hated that he'd already been forced to deal with such horrors.  He offered a gentle smile, and the soft caress of his own EM field - anything to get that shell-shocked expression of the little guy's face.

"Cruel as it sounds, you just gotta distance yourself from it.  I can't afford to weep for all of the injustice in the world - I'd never stop.  I see death now - it's shocking, it hurts, but I can't spend my life dwelling on it.  My advice is to find something else to focus on.  It could be the mission, or the world around you, or someone you care about, or anything.  Dwelling won't get you nowhere.  You gotta keep movin' on - _find_ something to keep you movin' on."

"Oh," Bumblebee said after a long moment.  He didn't sound entirely convinced, however.

"Something else troubling you?"

"Well," Bumblebee turned around, giving a furtive glance to the left, to the right, before at last beckoning Jazz away from the clearing.  Jazz followed, feeling amused in spite of the grim atmosphere. 

"Well?"

"I was just thinking, Blurr said that Cliffjumper said that Sentinel planted the explosives."

Jazz chuckled.  "I wouldn't get too hung up on that just yet.  The evidence still exists.  We can take a look for ourselves to see what happened."

Bumblebee's mouth wilted in a doubtful frown.  "But the explosives were in the engine room, yeah?"

"Well yeah, but-"

"And they couldn't have gotten in there if I had been doing my job properly and keeping an optic on things."

Now didn't _that_ sound like a familiar rhetoric?  "You ain't blaming yourself for what happened?"

Bumblebee's optics grew wide as saucers, as though offended by the very notion.  "No!"  And then he paused, thinking it over.  "Well, maybe?  I don't know!  I mean, I know that I'm not the one who planted explosives, or whatever, but I also know that I wasn't the best at my job; I got in trouble for leaving my post that same night - was doing my punishment with Ratchet when the ship blew up.  And if someone got in and did - well, _something_ while I was out . . ." he cut himself off, a suspicious look overtaking him.  "Wait . . . _you_ were there!"

"Sorry, what?"

"When I got back!  You were standing in the engine room!"  He began backing away, his attention shifting between Jazz and Optimus, as though confirming he had a way out.  Jazz did not pursue. 

Once a suitable distance away, with Optimus to his back, he continued.  "What were you doing there?"

Despite the sudden change in treatment and temperament, Jazz remained unruffled.  "I was chasin' a mouse."

Bumblebee was confused enough by the expression that he forgot to look suspicious.  "What?"

"I left the bar, on my way to report to the big - well to Sentinel Prime."  He felt his deceased boss was at least allowed a small amount of deference in his passing.  "Somethin' caught my optic, racing down the hall like Unicron was after 'im.  I followed all the way to the engine room, but then I lost track of him.  I didn't see him leave with my own optics, but I got a hunch whoever it was left the same time I did.  Just a feelin.'"

"W-why didn't you _tell_ me this?!  I was only on duty at the time!"  His suspicion had turned to rage.  He marched right back up to Jazz, and stood on tip toe, in an effort to get up in his face.   It was a little endearing, to be honest.  "It was my job to know something like that!"

Jazz shrugged, unperturbed.  He was not an easily-ruffled mech.  "I figured you didn't need to know."

"But -" Bumblebee backed down, withdrew into himself, as rage turned to the bitter sting of betrayal.  "But you've had all this time.  You could have told me at any point after that.  Maybe I could have helped you!"

"Maybe, maybe not.  I admit, most of my energy's been wrapped up in Prowl these days."

Perhaps that had been the wrong thing to say.  Bumblebee was shuffling away again.

"Prowl?  What's so great about Prowl?!"

Jazz vented a frustrated sigh.  He did _not_ need to deal with petty jealousy right now.  "His life has been on the line pretty consistent since we got here.  I've been givin' all I got to keep him alive, just as I worked to keep _you_ alive."  His tone remained smooth as ever, despite his irritation.

"What?  What do you mean?"

"What I mean, 'Bee, is that, as I'm sure you seen with Prowl, bein' accepted by the group is instrumental to  survival, or was at least, back when Sentinel was runnin' the show.  You and Prowl _both_ were outliers, and as far as Sentinel was concerned, worthless, so I made an effort to keep both of you part of things, and it worked out perfect for you  - you've made some real contributions, and not one rational-thinkin' bot suspected you when you wound up on the wrong end of Sentinel's lance.  Of course, Prowl was more stubborn, so . . . what's wrong?"

"You mean . . . you mean you and me - we're not . . . ?"

Jazz shook his head, feeling a twinge of guilt for breaking the little mech's heart.  He'd known about Bumblebee's crush, and had done nothing to dispel it in its infancy, in the name of the greater good.  But he'd have to do it sooner or later.  "Romantic?  No, I'm sorry.  I think you're a very charming kid, and there's gonna be big things in your future, I'm sure.  But I'm not much for the romance thing.  It ain't healthy for a mech in my position."

"But Blurr and Longarm -"

Jazz was quick to cut him off.  "Is _not_ what I'd call a healthy relationship.  You can see for yourself."  He cast a glance back at Sentinel, at Jetstorm.  While the relationship between his co-worker and the other Prime was probably not to blame for this mess, he couldn't help but feel a connection.  It was no secret that Longarm had been a point of contention between Cliffjumper and Blurr (at least as far as Jazz was concerned).  Moreover, though they had left the base together that morning, they came back separate, and angry.  Perhaps they'd had a fight, perhaps over Longarm, perhaps a lack of office drama could have prevented the situation.  It was only speculation, but Jazz had never been much of a gambler.  It was better to take the safe route - to not get involved.  Relationships had no place in the Elite Guard.

Bumblebee folded his arms, suddenly looking quite small.  "Fine then.  That's - that's fine.  I never really liked you anyway.  Always too cool - who even acts like that?  Is there even a person under all that coolness?"

"Now you bein' petty."  Jazz matched Bumblebee's gesture, though whereas the little mech projected vulnerability, Jazz showed only confidence.  "We should probably be gettin' back to work, helpin' out Prowl."

Bumblebee fixed a harsh glare on him.  "Yeah, ignore the problem!  How mature of you!  Let's write off Bumblebee's concerns!  They're just childish nonsense!"

"Little Bee . . ."

"And don't call me that!  It's insulting!" he snapped, fire in his optics.  Jazz debated telling the bot to take a break, vent some air, chill.  He decided against it.

"Apologies."

Bumblebee stood up straighter, his lips twisted in a wicked grin.  "Well, how's _this_ for childish?  I _was_ gonna spill some sweet secrets about what I think coulda happened to the ship!  But I think I _won't_ now!  Take that!"

Jazz quirked an optic ridge.  "That _is_ pretty childish.  I'm sorry you takin' this so bad."  There was no sense in arguing with the kid right now.  He marched past Bumblebee straight for Optimus and Bulkhead, ignoring the cries that called out behind him.

"Wait!  You can't just run away from me!"

He was in no mood to deal with theatrics.  Bumblebee would tire himself out soon enough, plop down in the mud, reproach himself for his behavior, and then quietly try to pretend the whole thing hadn't happened.  In the meantime, Jazz intended to follow up on the lead Bumblebee had just given him.  The kid wasn't the only one who knew about the engines.

"Hey Bulkster, I got a question for you, if you got a moment." 

Bulkhead didn't respond.  He was crouched as low to the ground as he could get, EM field pulled tight, which was unusual for the usually free-spirited mech.

"Bulkhead?  You okay?"

Bulkhead shook his head, his dim optics locked on to the gruesome corpse of Sentinel.  "N-no, I - I don't know.  I've never - this is so awful."

"He was tortured to death, we think," Optimus supplied, sparing a look of concern for his upset subordinate.

"Hm?"

"His leg's been snapped off, his fingers smashed, his head was slammed into that tree, we think," he nodded at a tree behind him, bark splattered with drying energon.  "And then, most alarming, his entire front carriage was completely ripped off."

Bulkhead's hefty frame let out a heavy shudder at Optimus's comment.  "It's - it's scary to think about.  Sentinel was strong - he had heavy armor, like me.  And that monster just tore right through it.  It was quick too.  One motion we think.  One motion was all it took . . ."  He wrapped his arms over his spark, protectively.

"From what I heard of Shockwave, that sounds about right," Jazz nodded, grimly.  "He ain't even one of the bigger, _or_ stronger Decepticons.  But he _is_ smart.  No way he don't know we're here, which begs the question - why's he only waitin' 'til _now_ to attack us?  And what did Sentinel know or do that was worth all _this_?"

Bulkhead shuddered again, trying to stifle a worried hiccup.  "We could all die at any moment!  I - I think I need to sit down."  He rolled back on his heels, and plopped to the ground, with enough force to shake loose leaves from some nearby trees.  "He did _this_ to Sentinel.  And Jetfire and Jetstorm.  They were supposed to be super strong, weren't they?  And he ripped through them like they were minicons.  What's he gonna do to the rest of us?"  He continued muttering, lost in his own violent world.  Jazz wanted to help him, to convince him it would be all right, but to be honest, he shared many of the mech's fears.

"You've got some good points," Optimus noted, speaking to Jazz, but with enough volume for Bulkhead to hear.  "And I intend to find our answers.  One way or another."

"A noble pursuit, but how you plannin' on doin' it?"

Optimus's frown drooped, grew more severe.  "I'm going to start small.  I'd like to get your opinions on a few things, if you got a moment."

"Sure thing, boss."  The smile that came to Jazz's face was easy enough, despite the gloomy atmosphere of the clearing.  It had come with practice, the ability to project indifference, even when the world was falling to pieces at his feet.

"When we ran into you in the woods, you seemed in a hurry to get back to base.  You didn't _know_ this had happened, did you?"

Jazz shook his head.  "No.  Didn't have a clue.  What I do know is I caught a certain pair of jets spying on me this mornin' when I was out explorin' some caves; I didn't confront them, but I figured Sentinel was losing it if he was sending his lackeys after _me_."  He nodded respectfully towards Jetstorm's body.  "Sorry for the dig, buddy.  I thought you were cool as they come."

He continued, returning his attention to Optimus.  "His reaction when Blurr came back with energon was pretty in line with that.  Pit, he hadn't even noticed that Longarm was gone, and he'd been keepin' close tabs on _him_ all morning.  But he went out after that to dig up more, and I started gettin' nervous, mostly for Prowl's sake, 'cuz well, you know.  But I figured it was best that no one else be caught alone 'til he chilled the frag out either.  Guess I was right to be worried 'bout that."  He let out a bitter laugh.

"You said it was a nature hike," Bulkhead mumbled.  "We're part of this too.  You shoulda told us the truth.  Maybe Cliffjumper woulda joined us if you had."

Another stab of guilt struck Jazz.  Bulkhead was right, and it hurt.  But he couldn't go back in time and change his actions.  All he could do was work to not repeat his mistake.  "And I realize now that was the wrong thing to do.  I ain't gonna lie to y'all no more."  A flash of yellow passed through his processor.  It left him feeling bitter.  "Gonna trust that I ain't always gonna know what's best for y'all - I ain't much of a psychic, can't predict the future anyway.  I'm sorry."

Optimus stepped in with an awkward grunt, as though unsure how to get the conversation back on track.  "Well, if there's no more to say on that, I've got another question."

"Shoot."

This time, he leaned in closer, spoke in a lower voice.  It wasn't enough to prevent Bulkhead from hearing, but it was evident that he felt the information warranted a degree of secrecy.

"What do you think of Blurr's story?"

"Blurr's story?" Jazz thought back to Blurr, sitting on the edge of the recharge slab, the sacred light of his spark shining through his chest in an unholy manner.  What had happened to him was the worst kind of violation; there was no reason to feel anything but pity, sorrow, empathy for the poor bot.  And yet, Jazz couldn't keep the suspicion away from his thoughts.

"I believe that he told the truth.  The evidence we've gleaned seems to be in line with his story."

"You think so?"

Jazz held up a finger, begging for a moment to finish his thought.  "But I don't think he told the _whole_ truth."

Optimus raised an optic ridge.  "The 'whole' truth?"

"Call it a hunch, but I think Longarm's more involved in this than he says he is.  The how of it is beyond me, but I've been keepin' tabs on him for a few days now, and the mech keeps on actin' in ways that don't make no sense."

"I agree with you that he's done things I don't understand, but I think suspecting him may be a bit much.  Everyone was quick to turn on Prowl too, if you recall, and he was innocent."

"Try this, then: Ratchet died after examining Longarm, Sentinel and Jetstorm died after picking a fight with Longarm's boyfriend.  Not to mention the fact that he keeps on disappearing off by himself.  I followed him the last time, lost him in a series of caves, but he was acting very shifty, like he expected someone to try and follow him."

"But I thought we determined that the spiders had killed Ratchet."  Optimus took a moment to frown to himself, as though he didn't like the way the words sounded.  "Didn't we?"

Jazz nodded.  "That _is_ what we told everyone.  But there's nothing to say he ain't working with 'em.  It would explain a couple of things, yeah?"

"Hmm."  Optimus let Jazz's words roll through his processor for a moment, as though testing out the notion. 

"Hmm?"  Jazz mimicked.

Optimus fixed his thoughtful gaze directly on Jazz's own visor, a new question on his lips.  "How much do you suppose Blurr knows?"

"That one's easy," Jazz smiled, though once again, it was ill-suited to the circumstance.  "I think he knows quite a lot.  Maybe not everything, but definitely more than he pretends to.  He's not a stupid mech.  There's no way he could spend as much time with Longarm as he does and fail to see all of this."  He waved a circle in the air, to illustrate his statement.

"Then if Longarm really _is_ working with our enemies, do you think Blurr is too?"  The words seemed to cause Optimus physical pain.  It was surely difficult for him to think of a bot he'd trusted and cared for, _saved_ even, as a possible traitor.

Jazz gave an indifferent shrug.  "That one's harder to say.  I'm almost certain he knows what's going on, but how he feels about it is another matter altogether.  Let's take the energon issue, for example.  He's known there was an extra supply on the island for awhile now, you could tell by just how bright his colors were.  Longarm's were as well, but blue's a bit more obvious than grey, yeah?"

Optimus's mouth fell open.  "Primus, you're right!  How did I miss that?!"

"You had other things on your mind.  No worries.  Thing is, in the end, he brought some back for us.  He came clean.  I don't think he woulda done so unless he was feelin' guilty about it.  He's not completely gone yet."

"What do you think we should do?" Optimus pondered.

"Not sure about what we _should_ do, but here's what we _can_.  We use Blurr.  We gotta be careful, of course.  Longarm ain't an idiot either, but Blurr's the weak link there.  We play our cards right, we might be able to get him to spill the beans.  What do ya think?"

Optimus folded his arms over his chest, optics downcast as he considered Jazz's plan.  As he thought it over, Jazz couldn't help but notice a soft presence approaching behind him.  Prowl.

"Hey buddy, what's up?"

Prowl stood a respectful distance away, arms behind his back, face all-business.  "I was unable to find any trail to follow, but I do think that I've found the place he was standing when he shot Jetstorm."

"Yeah?"

Prowl gestured sharply towards a heavily-wooded patch of trees at the western end of the clearing.  The foliage was dense enough that it easily could have obscured a mech of even Shockwave's size relatively well. 

"And you said there was no trail?"

"That's correct."

Jazz was beginning to feel another of his hunches coming on.  He recalled the way he'd seen Longarm run through the woods, compared it to the uneven gait that Shockwave's own footprints exhibited.  Perhaps Prowl hadn't found a trail, not because there was no trail, but because he hadn't known what to look for.

"Hey Prime."

"Yes?" Optimus mumbled, distracted.

"I think I've just found a new lead.  Gonna book it - see if I can't sniff out our target."

Optimus's head snapped up.  "What, alone?"

"Well, yeah," Jazz said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"That's a terrible idea.  Even if the spiders aren't killing people, we have confirmation that they're at least out there stealing memories.  And that's to say nothing of Shockwave.  You can't go out alone."

Jazz was not to be dissuaded, however.  "To be fair, Prime, this is a reconnaissance mission.  Speed and stealth are both requirements, and of the mechs that can keep up with me, one is still injured, and the  other's under suspicion.  I don't got much of a choice here."

"You could always wait for a better opportunity."

Jazz shook his head.  "Ain't no better opportunity than now.  I've already been investigatin' this lead, and I mighta just found the trail!"  Prowl pursed his lips, watching him with a deep frown.

"But I just told you -"

"Trust me on this.  I think I'm on to something here."

It was clear from the look on his face that Optimus did not approve of Jazz's plan, and Prowl and Bulkhead matched his hesitance.  But none of them could deny that Jazz had a point.  Shockwave knew they were there, knew where they were, could kill them at his whim.  Knowledge was the only chance they had to stand against the monster.

"Very well," Optimus at last relented.  "But I want updates every cycle."

"Yes sir!"

~~~

As it turned out, Jazz's hunch had been correct.  Shockwave's gait was already long, longer when running, and unpredictably long when running in quite the same way Longarm had the other night.  On a whim, Jazz had turned towards the caves that he'd tracked Longarm to days prior, and started moving.  It hadn't taken him long to find the next track in the soft ground.  The implications of this unique similarity between Shockwave and Longarm were most unsettling.  From what he recalled of Shockwave's appearance, the two mechs bore some physical similarities, but that meant little in a world that only had so many frame types.  Sharing an ability, however, was quite rare.

Eventually, the tracks did disappear altogether, right next to that cave system, as predicted.  As far as he was concerned, this confirmed that Shockwave had set up camp in one of the caves.  It was just a matter of time until he found the right one.

He hadn't expected that amount of time to be a few kliks.

From one of the nearby caves, Jazz noticed a faint buzzing sound, like some kind of insect, but infinitely larger than any he'd seen on the island.  Perhaps this was what he was waiting for.  He turned on his stealth protocols, and slipped into the cave.

It was straightforward enough, and with the sound of buzzing a constant presence, it was easy to follow the correct path on the rare occasion when the cave forked.  Eventually, he reached the chamber.  What he found, was not Shockwave, but something almost worse.

It was indeed a bug - a monstrous, hideous wasp - about forty-feet tall, green and striped, with long, razor-sharp claws, and vivid purple optics, on its face _and_ chest.  But it wasn't just a bug - the bug was a Decepticon, and despite its organic nature, it maintained a few traits that were distinctly mechanical, bits of metallic chassis here and there.  His first instinct was to think the creature an abomination, his second to pity him.  This was not a creature that had been made by nature, that much was clear. 

With a silent grace, Jazz dipped past the monster, and into a corner, unseen by the terrifying creature.  He took the opportunity to examine the rest of the chamber. 

He was no scientist, but he'd hung out with Wheeljack enough to recognize the signs of a laboratory, even if most of the equipment had been made from scrap.  The knick-knacks that lined the table, the haphazard shelves, the floors made no sense to him, but there was one item in the lab that he would have recognized anywhere.  On the back wall, taking up much of the space within the chamber, was a half-built space bridge.  It was clearly not yet functional; were the Decepticons trapped on this world too?

The sharp tapping of heeled boots echoed down the tunnel, and Jazz retreated further into his hiding space.  The buzzing, caused by the nervous beating of the monster's wings, ceased.  "Ah!  Spider Lady returnzzz!  Wasspinator isss happy!"

So _that_ was their spider.  He vaguely recognized her as the Decepticon's science officer after Shockwave left the post, though he'd never found out why the change had occurred.  He suspected he had a hunch now.

The spider lady ignored the greeting, and stormed by in a huff, plopping herself right in the middle of her work bench and scowling.  The large bug (Waspinator, apparently), was unfazed by her attitude.

"Shockwave wazzz in here looking for you earlier.  He wazzz not so happy when you were gone.  Took it out on poor Wasspinator."

"Shockwave can get slagged," she snapped back.  So all was not well with their enemies.  And, of course, he now had confirmation that Shockwave was counted amongst their ranks.

"Where did Spider Lady go?"

" _I_ was out having a lovely conversation with my old friend."

"Optimussss Prime?" Waspinator asked, tilting his alien head, in a rather underwhelming way.  Despite his size and ferocious appearance, Jazz got the impression that the big guy wasn't much of a threat, at least when compared with his cohorts.

"Perhaps," she said with a coy lilt.

Waspinator beat his wings in a flurry, the buzz he created rebounding off the walls of the chamber with a degree of volume that Jazz found surprising, after growing accustomed to its brief absence.  How was the bug not deaf yet?

"But Ssspider Lady wazz told not to talk to old friends!  Shockwave ssssaid so!"

"Yeah, well Shockwave promised he wouldn't kill any more Autobots, so I think I get some leeway here!" she snapped back, inadvertently answering several of Jazz's questions.  He briefly debated leaving before the atmosphere of the room grew any hotter, but the spider's EM field was extended wide.  It would be more dangerous to move.

"Shockwave killed more Autobotzz?  Why?  He promised too!  Doess no one know what 'promise' meanzzz?!"

The spider vented a bitter sigh.  "You wanna know why?  I'll tell you why!  It's 'cause the scrapheap is in love," she drew out the word, nasal and taunting, disgust evident in her strange features.  "Cut out my spark and leave me to die.  How did _Shockwave_ of all mechs, let this happen to him?!  And with a fraggin' _Autobot_ no less!"

"Shockwave is a traitor, no?"  Waspinator rubbed all four of his claws in hungry anticipation.  "Do we terminate him?"

"No!" the spider snapped.  "He's a royal pain in the aft, but he know a lot about space bridges."

"Aww, Wazzpinator never gets to have any fun."

The spider laughed, withdrawing her fierce EM field, if only slightly.  "You will soon enough."  Now was his chance!  Without leaving a trace of his presence, Jazz bolted from the corner, towards the entrance of the chamber. 

Leave it to fate to stand in his way.  Or in this case, a poorly-timed sneeze from Waspinator.  He stumbled backwards, and Jazz, momentarily distracted by another massive noise echoing through the chamber, found himself caught off-guard, and right in the path of two very large, techno-organic feet.

When the dust settled, Waspinator sat on the ground, confused and disheveled, with Jazz trapped between his knees.  The spider stared at the scene for a long moment, the corner of her lip twitching, as though she wasn't sure whether to laugh or scream. 

She settled on neither, steeling her expression and striding forward with fierce steps.  "Well well, what have we here?"

Jazz said nothing.

"Not that I care who you are, or what you're doing here.  You've made a big mistake in coming."  She turned to her companion.  "Hey Waspinator, remember how you were complaining about never having any fun?"

Stoic show or not, Jazz wasn't about to allow himself to become a chew-toy for a giant wasp.  He said the first thing he could think to in a situation like this.  "I think you'll be wanting to know how I got here, actually."

The spider held up a hand to hold off her pet, who currently had drool seeping through his mandibles.  "Oh will I?"

"Well, I mean, I got here by following Shockwave's trail.  Someone clearly has some issues with bein' secretive.  But I guess that's love for you.  There's no time for strategy when you racin' to the rescue."

She stumbled back, as though slapped.  "He - you followed his - _what_?!"  She whirled around, clenching her fists tight, upper limbs curled as well.

"I can see you've been havin' trouble with your buddy.  We have too, if what I heard you talkin' about is right.  Looks like we got something in common."

"Oh yeah?  I'm touched that we share this deep, personal bond.  I'll be thinking about that as Waspinator rips you apart."

Waspinator buzzed happily behind him.

"Well, I mean you _could_ do that," Jazz taunted, masking his fear easily.  The spider stared at him with four, scrutinizing red eyes, before she slapped a frustrated palm to her face.

"Ugh, fine.  Let's hear it.  How do you think you'll get out of _this_?"

"Well, I'd like to point out first, that we already know that Shockwave is on the island, and we already suspect that he's Longarm Prime.  Yeah?"

"And?"

"And you think that we're gonna stop investigatin' this just 'cause I turn up dead?  Pit, they're gonna be all over this place, which might not bode so well for your project."  He nodded towards the space bridge.

" _And_?" she pressed.

" _And_ , I'm thinkin.'  What you're makin' over there looks to be mutually beneficial, yeah?  To both our causes.  You want to protect it, and _I_ sure as the pit don't want anything happening to it.  But I can't say my Autobot buddies will even recognize what it is when they come calling, andnone of us want any accidents."

"Just get to the point, already.  I'm getting bored."

"But," he continued with a smooth grin.  "If you let me outta here, I can subdue the investigation.  We'll stop poking around after Shockwave, _he_ stops killin' us off - I mean, you surely don't care about _us_ , but maybe you care about Optimus?"

She fell silent at that, optics narrowing to slits.  "So you're saying you'll make Shockwave behave if I let you go?  Big claim."

"If anyone can do it, it's me."

"You," she growled, voice dark and dangerous.  This was the moment of truth.  Either she was going to let him go back to base, unscathed, or he was about to face down a monster some eight times his size, already held at a disadvantage.

"I don't like you."  

Waspinator leaned forward at her words, grabbing Jazz's arms in massive claws.  The size difference made his grip loose; Jazz was fairly sure he could shake it off, if need be, but he didn't want to pick a fight with the thing unless he had to.

"But I don't like Shockwave more," she said at last, deflating.  "So fine, you get to live today.  Keep Shockwave outta trouble.  Of course, if you fail to do that," she flashed dangerous fangs.  "I _will_ hunt you down.  I'm well aware of your propensity for wandering off on your own.  One of these days when you least expect it - well, I'm sure you've seen how my webs work by now.  Waspinator, release him."

Waspinator obeyed, albeit with a high whine, out of place on such a frightening mech.  "Sssee?  Waspinator never have fun."

"Can it," she snapped, turning to face the newly-liberated Jazz.  "And you, get the frag out of my cave.  I don't want to see your ugly mug anymore.  Got it?"

"Yes ma'am," he said with a lazy salute, before jogging off.  He waited until he was beyond sight and sound, before picking up the pace, transforming to alt mode, and speeding off into the night.

That had been close; he'd not had a brush with death quite that bad in a couple hundred stellar cycles.  He felt he'd handled it well, all things considered, but it rankled at him that he'd allowed himself to be caught off-guard so easily.  That could _not_ be allowed to happen again.  He would have to increase his vigilance, least of all due to the unwanted meal he'd just put on his plate.

He'd spoken big with the spider, all confident smiles and coy words, but it was just talk.  Truth be told, he had no idea how to control Shockwave, or the rest of the team for that matter.  Would it be best to let the others know the truth, and trust that they would see the logic in his decision to let Shockwave fix the space bridge?  He'd already promised himself that he would stop assuming that he knew what was best for everyone else - knew what kind of information the others could and couldn't handle.  And yet . . .

He didn't trust the others not to ruin this great thing, this potential route home.  And he trusted their ability to keep the information from winding up back with Shockwave even less.  The spider may have had some mysterious reservations about killing Optimus, but Jazz was willing to bet that Shockwave had no such qualms about killing the lot of them, Blurr excepted. 

That was it then, he couldn't tell.  He'd keep what he'd learned a secret from the others; even Optimus couldn't know.  When compared with Sentinel, he was the model leader, but even _he_ was not without his flaws, and when it came down to it, he _was_ a soft-spark.  He'd spill the beans to the others, for sure.  Silence was the safest option.  Silence was the _only_ option.  He was not going to allow one more mech to die on his watch.  And _that_ was a promise he intended to keep.

In the meantime, he had to divert attention to another issue.  Perhaps it was time to address the sabotage again.  There was a conversation he needed to have with Bulkhead.

 

 


	30. Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jetfire copes with the loss of his brother.

Something was wrong.  His systems gave no indication; no error messages popped up on his HUD, but he could feel it, as though his vision had faded to pixellated grayscale, as though the sounds of the world were tinny, overladen with heavy feedback and static, as though his sensors were disabled, leaving his body numb in all but one location: his spark.

It hurt.  It hurt and felt empty and weak and damaged, and he didn't know why.  He tried, as he always did when scared, to call out for his brother, but Jetstorm's end of the sparkbond was silent.  All at once, he was back on the rig, as the explosion rocked his frame, shattered his helm, took him away from the bot who completed him, from the world altogether.

Jetfire was terrified.

But he was an Elite Guardsmech; he'd been trained to remain calm in a crisis, to keep a level head and assess his options.  It was the only thing that kept him from tearing the ship apart right there.

"Jetfire!  Jetfire, calm down, you're safe now - everything's fine - for a given definition of fine anyway, but you need to calm down before you set something on fire!"

The harried babbling hit him distantly - it was at the same incomprehensible speed that Blurr spoke at.  The thought of the little blue speedster filled him with a sense of dread, but he couldn't quite pinpoint the reason why.  Something about a red light.

He onlined his optics to see the room - dull and lifeless, cast in the soft orange glow of the flames emanating from his body.  He was on fire.  No wonder Blurr sounded so panicked.   With much effort, he quelled the flames and moved to rise from the med table.  And that was when he got his first true proof that something was amiss.

"Where is my arm being?!  It is gone!"  Indeed, his entire left arm was missing, from the shoulder joint down.  Try as he might, however, he couldn't remember how he'd managed to lose it.  One moment, he'd been flying to help Sentinel Prime, the next - nothing.

"And where is being Sentinel Prime Sir?!  I am needing to report to him in the immediate!"  With his remaining limbs, he flung himself at Blurr, clutching a shoulder with his good hand, all but screaming in the startled bot's face.  A dark growl rose up from behind him, filling within his spark an overwhelming sense of unease.  He let go of Blurr and slowly turned around, terrified of what he would see, and wishing he could feel Jetstorm.  Where was he?  Was he hurt too?

The menacing sound had come from none other than the most-untrustworthy Longarm Prime, who stood now with his arms folded over his chest, and optics glaring up from under his helm.  "Sentinel Prime is dead," he said without a trace of empathy. 

The world beneath Jetfire vanished in a nanoklik.  He stumbled backwards, prevented from collapsing to the ground by Blurr's presence at his back.  How could this be?!  Sentinel Prime was the Autobot cause!  He was strong and wise, invincible!  He'd given Jetfire and his brother everything!  Life, wings, something to fight for!  He'd taken them from dirty factories and energon fields to the top of the Elite Guard!  How could he be dead?!  It was surely a lie!  Longarm Prime was a liar!

"That is not being funny joke," he snapped, regaining his footing.  "Where is Sentinel Prime?"

"Longarm's not joking," Blurr was quick to jump in.  "You probably don't remember, because it was a very traumatizing experience, but we were attacked by a Decepticon who we think is one of Megatron's lieutenants.  I'm not sure if you've heard of Shockwave, but he's our prime suspect at the moment . . ."

Blurr continued to prattle on, a hollowness to his confident smile - an emptiness to his tired optics.  He was lying.  He was in cahoots with Longarm Prime, who was a traitor - Sentinel had said as much.  And as Blurr continued to speak - let lie after traitorous lie spill from his mouth, Jetfire found his fear turning to rage.  His body grew hot, and all at once, the room was bathed in the orange glow of his flames anew               .

"Quit lying!  Why do you only tell lies?!"

"I'm not -" Blurr tried, but Jetfire refused to let him finish.

"You killed him!  The two of you!  I know you did!  You are traitors!  Sentinel Prime said so!  You and Cliffjumper too!"  He rose up off the ground, hanging in mid-air, dwarfing the smaller bot.  But Blurr didn't retreat.  Something in Jetfire's words caused a look of anger to flash in his optics.  All at once, his body was tense, prepared for battle.

"What did you do with Cliffjumper?!" he snapped, attempts at feigned sympathy discarded in favor of showing his true face.  "We know that you killed him - he'd done nothing wrong and you killed him!  He wasn't a spy - he didn't even like Longarm!  He was firmly on Sentinel's side, until he found out too much, and then Sentinel killed him!  Don't you DARE besmirch his name like that!  If anyone's a traitor to the cause, it's you three!  Now what did you do with his body!?"  Blurr looked half-ready to lunge, and Jetfire too, was prepared for battle.  But it didn't come to that.

A long, strutless arm made its way between the two of them, grabbing Blurr by the back of his scrawny neck, and pulling him away.  He whirled on Longarm this time, easily dislodging the bulky servo, a rabid fire in his optics.  "Don't touch me!" he screamed, slapping the servo that held him until it at last let go.

Calmly, Longarm withdrew the rest of his arm, choosing instead to fold it once more in front of his sliced up chest plating.  His manner was stern, yet carried an air of affection that was reserved for Blurr alone.  "We do not need any more battles between _allies_ today," he said, with a significant stress on the word that Jetfire didn't quite understand the implications of.  "Back off and cool down.  Optimus and the rest are coming back."

To Jetfire's surprise, Blurr obeyed.  Deflating as quickly as he'd heated up, and scampering weakly to curl up beneath the medical slab.  But Jetfire was still angry.  Without Blurr to face down, there was only Longarm. 

Jetfire turned in mid-air, staring down the diminutive mech, flames flaring outwards in a terrifying display of power, his body black as charcoal.  But Longarm did not budge.  Instead, he met Jetfire's amber optics with his own bold blue, along with a single red bulb that sat at the center of his forehead.  It almost seemed to be watching him.  The world around Jetfire began to disappear, until there was nothing but that eerie red light, a light that overwhelmed him with thoughts of pain and loss and suffering.  His fire was doused.  He fell back to the ground, plating regaining its normal orange coloration, elemental power canceled, and held his one arm tight over his chest, as if to protect his burning spark.

"If you have an issue, take it up with Optimus."

On cue, Optimus strode through the door, flanked by Bulkhead and Prowl, with Bumblebee trudging in farther behind.  All four wore grave expressions; Jetfire knew those looks.  They were the same ones that had watched Ratchet buried in the earth all those days ago.  Either everyone was in on this elaborate and terribly unfunny prank, or Longarm and Blurr had been speaking the truth.

Optimus's expression brightened when he caught sight of Jetfire, and he marched forward, stopping just short of actual, physical contact.  "Jetfire!  You're awake!"

"I am," he said, uneasy.  There was a pained expression behind Optimus's optics, and it did nothing to ease his already frazzled nerves.  "But you must be explaining to me!  Longarm Prime and Blurr are to be saying that Sentinel Prime is dead, and they are lying!  I do not believing them!  What is happening, Optimus Prime, Sir?"

Optimus winced at his words, but maintained his position.  "It's true," he said, voice hitching in a show of weakness that made Jetfire feel all the worse.  Prime's weren't supposed to cry!  They had to be strong!  Otherwise, the whole camp would devolve into tears!  Jetfire did not relay his opinions, however.  There was more that Optimus was not saying.

"I do not believing!"

"The bodies are out back," Prowl interrupted, voice as composed as ever.  _That_ was what a true leader sounded like.  Jetfire turned to face the shady stranger instead, unsure of how he was supposed to feel about him.  Sentinel hadn't given him any further commands after the trial.  Prowl continued, "We will honor them, as we did with Ratchet before."

Jetfire faltered, as his processor caught up with Prowl's words.  "Bodies?"  Had they found Cliffjumper?  It was impossible!  He and Jetstorm had dropped him in the ocean - none amongst them had the means to retrieve him.  But there were only two bots that were not present in the room.  One was Jazz, and the other . . . His spark lurched, filling his body with a white, hot pain.  What was going on?

Prowl wouldn't meet his eyes, nor Optimus.  When he turned his attention to Bumblebee, the little bot broke down, and buried his face in Bulkhead's wide chest.  Blurr remained hidden beneath the medical slab, long legs tucked up to his chest and rocking back and forth, a sentiment that Jetfire very much reflected, though he could not explain why.  Only Longarm would look him in the eye, but Jetfire didn't want to face down Longarm.  The red bulb at the center of his forehead was terrifying, made him want to purge.  He turned back to Optimus.

"Sir?"

"I'm sorry, Jetfire," Optimus said at last.  "Jetstorm didn't make it."

Jetfire's spark froze, his existence stopped in time.  Optimus was lying too.  Jetstorm couldn't be dead.  His presence  made up half of Jetfire's spark, and vice-versa.  If he was dead . . .

Jetfire was in pain - immense pain.  His spark was flaring out from within, burning his circuits, while simultaneously leaving him cold and empty.  Everything hurt.  Everything was miserable.  But that couldn't be caused by Jestorm's death!  It would hurt more than this, surely!  He would cease to _be_!  His body would give out, consumed by the all-encompassing agony of losing his other half.  Jetstorm wasn't dead!  He _couldn't_ be dead!  Jetfire didn't feel bad enough for Jetstorm to be dead!

He fell to the floor, wailing, as time started to flow once again.  He saw the world around him, Optimus reaching out in slow motion, trying to catch him.  He saw Bumblebee cowering, Blurr's horrified expression.  He saw Prowl grab on to Optimus's waist, pulling him back, and Bulkhead caught in between action and fear.  He saw the room alight in a violent burst of fire, the charcoal black of his plating, and, in the distance, that terrifying red light.

"Jetfire," Optimus shouted over the roar of the flames.  "Jetfire, please!   Calm down!  Before someone gets hurt!"

But Jetfire wasn't listening.  He was surrounded by traitors, the lot of them!  Sentinel had warned him, warned _both_ of them.  But he hadn't listened.  He'd never been able to stave off the twinge of guilt when commanded to strike down a bot without understanding why, nor the doubt when Sentinel had turned, first on Jetstorm, and then Cliffjumper.  He'd been a fool.  Sentinel had been wise as well as generous, and this lot had made him pay for his gifts to the cause with his life!  And as for Jetstorm . . . Jetstorm had committed no wrong!  He was perfect, innocent and lively and the best brother anyone could ask for!  Sometimes he took more than his share of energon, and sometimes he didn't know how to tell good jokes, and Jetfire could out-fly him any day, but he'd done _nothing_ to deserve his fate.  It should have been _him_.

Jetfire let loose a despairing scream, and flew from the room in a ball of flame, plowing through anyone and anything foolish enough to stand in his way.  Once out into the open air, he was free.  He could transform into a jet and fly off into the deepest wilderness at top speed, and no one would ever find him again.  Or at least, that had been the ill-conceived plan. 

Unfortunately, with only one arm, his transformation was a dud.  His t-cog couldn't activate quite right while missing such an essential component to his alt mode.  He sputtered in mid air and tumbled to the ground, crashing hard into the crater walls, and sliding back to the floor, his descent stopped by something cold, metallic.  It wasn't Sentinel's body.  It was too small, too svelte, too familiar.  He didn't dare look.  Didn't dare confirm that this nightmare was reality.  If he turned around, then Jetstorm really would be dead.   Instead, he offlined his optics, curled into a ball as best as he could, and began sobbing uncontrollably.

"Jetfire?"  Optimus had followed him.  Of _course_ he had.  The soft-spark was probably out here to talk about feelings and give hugs.  Jetfire refused to acknowledge him.

"I am sorry for your loss - truly I am.  I can't imagine the pain you're going through right now."  Why wouldn't he _shut up!_ ? Jetfire clutched his sides tighter, struts stiffened, ready for retaliation.   "But it occurs to me that you've responded best to strong authority in the past, so here is my shot. 

"Sentinel and Jetstorm are dead; that much is undeniable.  And Cliffjumper is missing and presumed dead.  Agent Blurr says that the three of you are responsible for Cliffjumper's death, as well as the damages done to _him_ , and based on the evidence, I'm inclined to believe him.  Therefore, I am ordering you to come back inside with me.  You will answer our questions, and you _will_ be wearing an inhibitor clamp."

Jetfire turned at the unexpected command.  Of everyone in their crew, Optimus was the only one that Sentinel had not told him and Jetstorm to keep tabs on - the only one whose loyalties he never questioned.  Optimus was a Prime, and Optimus was the only trustworthy Autobot left.  If he ordered something, then Jetfire was helpless but to obey.  He rose to his feet, shuttering his optics to avoid catching sight of the bodies, and turned around, exposing his back to Optimus and the device he'd scrounged up.  He supposed it wasn't too strange for the captain of a ship to have such a thing in his subspace.

Its effects were instantaneous.  Jetfire felt the energy drain from his systems, leaving his body with barely enough strength to stand and walk.  Flight was out, fire was out, escape was out, but that was okay.  He was surrounded by soft-sparks, civilians, and traitors; his god and his everything were both dead.  There was no more Autobot cause; there was no more life worth living.  What did he have to gain by fighting?  His head hung low as he trudged after Optimus, back into the ship, and the five sets of angry optics that awaited him.

~~~

Jetfire sat on the medical slab, staring hard at the floor, defeated.  Somewhere far away, he could hear Longarm Prime, mumbling aloud the words written in _Sentinel's_ private log.  Longarm had no business being in there, but there was nothing Jetfire could do to stop him.  Instead, he was forced to sit and listen to the traitor spill all of his boss's darkest secrets.

" 'And Primus help me, I fear I've made the biggest mistake of my life.  I was willing to do anything to keep the ship from docking on Theophany.  I needed to know if I could trust Longarm, and all of my planning would have been for nothing, if the Decepticon spy disembarked before he was apprehended.  But I'd come prepared.  I'd commissioned Wheeljack to whip up some explosives for me, for this very occasion.  They weren't meant to go off - weren't supposed to be capable of it even, but I guess that's what you get for trusting an overworked hack.

"'We'd planted them in the engine room, where they were bound to cause the most uproar.  But somehow, they _did_ go off, and now there's a ship full of dead senators, businessmechs, celebrities - all on my servos.  What have I done?'  Well, at least he showed _some_ degree of remorse for his actions," Longarm sniffed, as he finished the passage.

"So Sentinel really _did_ sabotage the ship," Bumblebee gaped.  "I don't believe it."

"I do," Optimus said, as though dazed.  "I'd even suspected as much the moment Jazz came barging into my office with news of their discovery.  But 'no,' I'd told myself.  Even _he_ wasn't that petty.  I was wrong."  He shook his head with a resentful growl.  "That _idiot_."

"Well," Longarm added, rising to his feet.  "As fascinating as this is, it doesn't change anything for our situation.  We knew that Sentinel planted the explosives.  This doesn't tell us anything that Cliffjumper didn't."

Bulkhead was stepping in this time.  "But it does, sort of.  He said that Wheeljack built the explosives.  He also built the engine."

Longarm shook his head.  "I fear you're grasping at straws.  The fact that Wheeljack worked on both means very little, unless they share a majority of their design features, which I very much doubt."

"Oh," Bulkhead said, backing down.  "I guess you're right."

"What we need is information from someone who was actually there - who saw the scene of the crime."

"Jazz!"  Bumblebee perked up, then backed off with a bitter sneer.  What was _that_ about?  The little bot had practically worshipped Jazz for the entirety of their stay on the island.  Of course, upon further reflection, Jetfire found that he didn't care.

When Bumblebee spoke again, it was with a childish whine.  "He's the one who found the explosives, wasn't he?  And I saw him milling about the engine room earlier that day.  He says he was following someone else, but who's to say he was telling the truth, huh?"

"He was," Jetfire mumbled from the medical slab, drawing all attention back to himself.

"Is that so?" Longarm sneered.  "Do tell."

Jetfire didn't want to tell.  He didn't even know why he'd opened his mouth in the first place.  He wasn't obligated to tell these liars, traitors, and murderers anything.  And what reason was there to defend _Jazz_ 's integrity?  He was just as bad as the rest of them.

 And yet, Jetfire himself was little better.  Worse in fact.  He had more innocent energon on his servos than the rest of them combined, did he not?

"Jetfire, that's an order," Optimus pressed.  It was all the pressure he needed to crack.

"Sentinel Prime told us—me and Jetstorm, to be planting the bombs.  My brother  was to making a distraction to clear the room, and I was to planting the bombs.  But I was followed, by Jazz.  I hid inside an engine until he was leaving and then was sneaking out after.  I was thinking that was a good place to plant the bomb—inside.  I didn't—I wasn't—It was not being Sentinel Prime's fault that the ship was blowing up!  It was mine!  It was all my fault!" 

He'd never felt particularly guilty about his role in the ship's destruction in the past.  Sentinel had assuaged his doubts from the beginning, assured him that his actions were for the greater good.  Even after everything had gone wrong, after the destruction of the ship, even after Sentinel had realized the scale of his error in judgment, he hadn't blamed Jetfire, and if Sentinel didn't think him guilty, then why should he worry?  But now, with every optic in the room glued on him—fear and anger and sorrow on their pallid faces, well, the gravity of his situation was beginning to finally sink in.

"I'm being punished then!" he wailed, unprompted.  "I am being the one who killed everyone, and now I am having lost everything.  My brother!  Sentinel Prime too!  Kill me if you are wanting.  I will be taking my punishment.  I deserve everything."

Before anyone else could respond, a shrill cry rose up from the back of the crowd. 

"No!  No no no no no no no no no no no no no no no!  Nobody's killing anybody!  There's been too much death, too much, too much, too much!  Please no more!"  It was Blurr again.  There was something wrong; Jetfire had never seen him behave in such a way before—fear and stress exacerbating his timing glitch, repeating every sentence over and over.  Was he really the traitor that Sentinel had claimed he was?  He was so weak.

"No one is killing _anyone_ ," Optimus said in a tone that left no room for argument.  "Those days are behind us now.  I've buried enough friends.  I refuse to do it again after today.  If Jetfire seeks punishment, then he can take it up with the council once we return, but for now, we work together.  Is that clear?"

It was Jetfire, of course, that took issue with Optimus's words.  "You are a weak leader.  This is why Sentinel Prime was having no respect for you!  If you were a good leader, you would to kill me now!  Kill me now!"

Optimus marched forward, head held high, taller and stronger than Jetfire had ever seen.  And he was angry, though when he spoke, his voice stayed fairly even.

"I've said my piece.  I know that you looked up to Sentinel, and I hate to speak ill of the dead, but he was responsible for many of the issues we've had since our arrival, let alone landing us in this predicament in the first place.  He is no longer with us, and I'm not happy for the fact, but I think it's time we start doing things a little differently around here.  You don't have to like it, but I have made up my mind."

"And I fully back your decision," Longarm added, stepping between the two.  "But I would prefer it if we kept the ship quiet.  The patients have been through much today.  Blurr, at least was disturbed from his rest by Jetfire's outburst, and he's none the better for it.  Worse even," he nodded to Blurr, who remained beneath the recharge slab, mumbling softly to himself.  "But they're _both_ drained, and arguing right now is only worsening the situation for everyone involved.  This conversation can be continued at another time.  In the meantime, anyone who's not injured should leave."

"Longarm, I don’t think that is necessary," Optimus said with a nervous frown.  Longarm was not to be persuaded, however.

"My authority supersedes yours, if you recall.  I'll let you run the field, but medical issues are in my hands, so I'd prefer if you honor my decision."  Optimus too, appeared as though he wasn't about to back down, but he was in no position to argue.  He turned to cast a glance at Prowl instead.

"Very well," he said at last.  "You and Blurr, Jetfire, and Prowl can all stay here.  The rest of us will leave."

Longarm smiled, a bit too widely.  "Prowl, of course.  He needs rest too, after all.  Certainly more than he's been getting.  Glad you mentioned it."  And then, with flat lips and a dark expression he added, "now shoo."

~~~

Jetfire had been forced to relinquish the recharge slab over to Blurr, who had promptly refused to sleep there and was now curled into a tight ball in a corner, while Longarm sat at the desk and pretended that he was not watching him like a Seeker.  It was unusual behavior for two bots who had previously been inseparable, but Jetfire remained unbothered.  How could he care about anyone else right now?  Not when Jetstorm was dead. 

With no slab to lie on, he had been cast aside to sit on the floor, opposite the door, inhibitor clamp still dampening his energy and limiting his movement.  Beside him sat Prowl, who had remained in silent meditation for most of the cycle.  Jetfire had thought him asleep until he received a ping on his comm.

_"It isn't your fault,"_ it said, text displaying across his HUD.  Empty words.  He'd expected better from Prowl.

" _You are not knowing anything,"_ he retorted, not bothering to dignify Prowl with so much as a glance.  To be fair, Prowl had given him the same treatment.  " _More weak talking.  I planted the bombs.  I am the guilty."_

_"Maybe,"_ Prowl acknowledged.  " _But I sabotaged the engines."_

Jetfire drew back in surprise, though the action was brief.  " _You did what?!  Sentinel was being right about you!"_

Prowl remained unmoving, optics dimmed, appearing as though he were still deep in meditation.  _"Maybe.  But he was to blame too.  And you.  And Jetstorm, and even Bumblebee if you really want to stretch, maybe even someone we don't even know about yet.  When it comes down to it, we're all to blame for what happened.  If punishment is what is needed, then it should be dealt to all of us."_

Jetfire turned away, focusing on his lone servo again.  His was so like another pair - one he'd known well.  He'd never see those hands again, never touch or hold them.  It was too much to bear.  He buried his face in his remaining hand and held back the sobbing again.

_"But perhaps it has,"_ Prowl continued. _"This island is our punishment – watching us turn on one another, seeing us get picked off one-by-one.  Our slow descent into madness.  It's worse than mere death."_

_"Then why bother leaving?"_ Jetfire questioned. _"We should not escape.  We should be here forever.  That is to being our punishment, yes?"_

_"No,"_ Prowl said, a tiny upwards quirk to his lips.  It was the first he'd moved all cycle.  " _I don't mind punishment for myself, but Optimus doesn't deserve it.  Bulkhead doesn't deserve it.  Even Bumblebee doesn't really.  They're good bots, and I want to help them."_

" _Good for you,"_ Jetfire said with a bitter sneer.  What was Prowl doing?  It wasn't much of a pep talk, and his words were hardly endearing.  Perhaps there was something he wanted?  He answered the question himself.

_"And I think I may be able to –_ we _may be able to, if you're willing."_

That was new.  Prowl had a plan; and he hadn't mentioned it before?  Why not?!  Jetfire felt a little offended.  " _Why me?"_

" _Because_ ," Prowl actually turned his head to smile this time.  " _You are the only other mech on this island I know of, who has first-hand experience with spark bonds."_

_That_ had gotten Jetfire's attention.  He sat up straighter, all pretense of annoyance vanished in an instant.  Prowl had first-hand experience with spark bonds?  How?

_"We're not so different, you and I.  We both seek punishment for our sins, for one.  But we also know what it is to share the entirety of your being with another bot.  I have a plan.  Will you help me?"_

It was an enlightening notion.  Jetfire didn't know exactly what Prowl intended to do, or why he needed _Jetfire_ ' _s_ help, of all bots.  They barely knew each other, after all.  But an idea was beginning to form in his mind, and suddenly, home didn't seem quite so far away."

" _Okay."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Edited 9/25 for Jetfire's inexplicable to gain and lose limbs on a whim)


	31. Under the Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bulkhead wants to help with the investigation. If only he knew how

Bulkhead was a simple bot.  He did what he was told, went with the flow, and tried not to make too much trouble.  But that didn't make him stupid.  He could see what was happening to their group – understood what was going on better than any of them could have imagined. 

Nobody cared what he thought.  Nobody trusted him – not in the same way they didn't trust Prowl or Longarm, but in the way they didn't trust Bumblebee to sit still and watch an engine room for any extended period of time.  And that was what had all started this, wasn't it?  Bulkhead knew from the get go that Bumblebee had no business being on that ship, but Bumblebee had begged, and bulkhead had never been able to resist that pouting face.  He'd caved, allowed himself to be used by his best friend, and put his entire future at risk to land Bumblebee that job on the Orion – and that had ended about as well as he'd expected it to.

Sentinel was to blame, of course.  Bulkhead didn't know Sentinel – not in the same way that Optimus did, or even Jazz or Longarm.  But even _he_ could tell that the bot was prone to dramatic overreactions.  He may not have guessed how deep the former Prime's servos had been in the energon pie, but he knew enough not to put his faith in the guy.  And he'd been right not to.  After Prowl, after Bumblebee, after Blurr, after each abuse of power, each flagrant display of his lack of empathy, Bulkhead had grown more and more resentful, more hungry for justice to be served.

But he hadn't wanted him dead.  Or Jetstorm.  Or _anyone_.  He hadn't known how true that was until he'd stared into Sentinel's dark, lifeless optics, taken in his crushed helm, stained in energon, his mangled limbs, the loose wires that poked out from his empty chassis like a spider's legs.  He'd seen death – violent, horrific death, and there was no coming back from it. 

What hurt the most was the feeling that he could have done something to prevent this turn of events.  He recalled every time that Sentinel had hurt someone, and he'd just stood by.  Reasonably, he couldn't have taken the Prime on, but what if he had?  Could he have made a difference? 

Or what if, all those nights ago, he hadn't allowed himself to be talked into going out to find Prowl?  Nobody would have left the ship, and Ratchet wouldn't have died.  Or if he'd been smart enough to accept Blurr's help with fixing the energon distillery when he'd offered it, rather than take Bumblebee's side – would the bot have grown so distant from the group?  Could he and Cliffjumper have been friends?  Maybe they wouldn't have split up  that afternoon.  Maybe Cliffjumper would still be alive. 

_Or_ what if he hadn't allowed Bumblebee to talk him into leaving his post?  In the end, he was every bit as much to blame for this disaster as any of them, and he hated it.  He was tired of sitting around in the background and allowing tragedy after tragedy to occur when he could have done something.  He was tired of relying on hindsight.

"Hey Little Buddy?" Bulkhead asked, leaning against the side of the ship.  He was weary – broken, drained, and in need of – _something,_ though he couldn't say whether that was sympathy, a pep talk, or just an open audial.

Hours had passed since the afternoon's investigation, and Longarm was still refusing to let them back inside the ship.  Bulkhead didn't mind staying the night outdoors, but more alarming than that, was the fact that Jazz still hadn't returned from his mission.  What if he never did?  He'd gone off in pursuit of _Shockwave_.  Bulkhead shuddered, as images of Sentinel's mangled body flashed through his mind.  There'd already been three deaths that day alone.  He didn't think he could handle another.

"What?" Bumblebee whined at last, hidden from sight around the corner of the ship.  He'd been moping all evening.  It was hard to tell whether his behavior had been caused by his visit to the crime scene, or the fact that he had been rejected by a certain Elite Guardsmech, though Bulkhead was leaning towards the latter.

"Why don't you come over here so we can talk?"

"Don't wanna."

Bulkhead shuttered his optics in frustration.  "Come on, Little Buddy.  Don't be like that.  A lot's happened today, and I thought you might want to talk about it."

"Well I don't!" came the snippy response.

If he wanted Bumblebee's attention, he was going about this in the wrong way.  Bumblebee was a proud mech.  He wouldn't admit that something was wrong unless he was desperate.  A different approach was needed.

"Well maybe _I_ do.  I don't think – I don't think I was ready to see those things – to see our dead _friends_ , lying in the mud – to see what that monster did to them.  I can't stop thinking about it. 

"I hated Sentinel.  And I didn't really like Jetstorm either.  But I never wanted them dead!  And Cliffjumper!  And even Blurr and Jetfire!  They didn't deserve what happened to them either!"  His vocaliser cut out, and he took a moment to reset it.  Playing to Bumblebee's pride was one thing, but the fact of the matter was, He really _did_ need someone to talk to.

Indeed, Bumblebee came crawling around the corner, already large optics even wider.  "Yeah," he said, a little resigned.  "It's terrible.  We just keep on tearing ourselves apart bit by bit by bit.  There's not gonna be anything left.  We're all gonna die on this stupid planet with its stupid trees and its stupid mud and stupid wildlife!  I hate it!"  He planted himself on the ground, clinging tightly to one of Bulkhead's massive legs.

"I wouldn't go that far," Bulkhead barked a nervous laugh.  "We're gonna fix this, Bee.  We're gonna get off this planet.   And Optimus is in charge now, more or less.  If anyone can get us unified enough to keep something like that from happening again, it's him.  Besides," he glanced around furtively.  He wasn't convinced this information was something he should be sharing with Bumblebee, but he himself had complained about Jazz keeping secrets earlier that day.  It wouldn't be fair if he did the same.  "We already have an idea as to what's really going on here.  Jazz is looking into it right now."

Bumblebee turned to the side, folding his arms across his own chest with a derisive snort.  "Hmph!  Jazz who?"

"Come on," Bulkhead protested.  "This really isn't the time for bickering among ourselves.  We gotta work together, now more than ever!"

"I know that, really I do."  For once, Bumblebee sounded like he was taking the situation seriously.  "But I'd rather not talk about _him_ yet.  I can't believe he led me on like that for all this time!  He goes around pretending he's some kinda beacon of wisdom that's got his act together, but he's really just a sleazy, lying aft!"

"Bumblebee!"

"Thinks I'm too small and weak to know what's actually going on!  I got a right to this info too, y'know!  And you!" he whirled on Bulkhead.  "How come they told _you_ about 'what's really going on,' but not me?"

Bulkhead slid down the wall, seating himself on the ground beside Bumblebee, suddenly too weary to stand tall any longer.  "I just happened to be there when they were discussing it earlier.  I said the same thing though – that they had no business hiding what was going on from the rest of us.  And that's why I'm gonna tell you right now.

"Jazz and Optimus think that Longarm's connected to Shockwave, and is somehow behind the deaths.  Blurr might be involved too."

Bumblebee remained silent for a moment as he took the information in.  When he at last had gathered himself enough to speak, all he could muster was a choked, "what?"

"I don't know all of the details, but Jazz found a lead and is off investigating it right now."

Bumblebee shook his head.  "But no!  That can't be right!  Blurr helped me that one time!  He saved me from Sentinel Prime!  And Longarm too . . . well then after I told him about how Prowl hadn't killed anybody he became convinced that he _had_ . . . and – uh, well – but – that fragged-up glitchhead!"  He scrambled to his feet, EM field flickering wildly.  "He got us into this, I bet anything!  I should've known!  We gotta stop him!"   Before he'd taken two steps away from the wall, Bulkhead was grabbing his leg, tripping him up, and effectively halting his process.

"What gives?!" Bumblebee screeched, his lower half dangling in the air.

With his free hand, Bulkhead raised one of his bulky digits to his mouth, in an effort to hush his friend.  "You're not going after him, are you?"

"Of course I am!" Bumblebee snapped, albeit with a bit less volume.   "Prowl and Jetfire are still in there!  He could kill them at any moment!"

"They're probably fine right now.  But _we_ won't be if we go after him.  Do you really think you could take Longarm Prime in a fight?"

"Maybe."

Bulkhead shook his head and let go of Bumblebee's leg, letting him fall to the ground unceremoniously.  "And what about Blurr?"

"Well," Bumblebee said, rolling back into a seated position.  "Maybe not him."

"Besides, I said it was just a suspicion.  And Optimus and Jazz are already taking care of it.  We don't want to get in the way of whatever it is they're doing.  We just gotta act normal but keep our guards up.  It's all we can really do right now."

"Right," Bumblebee growled, scooting back to the wall, but refusing to look at Bulkhead.  "That's all weak little civilians like us can do."  With a low groan, he clutched both servos to his head and hunched over.  "Primus, I wish we were back on the ship!  I wish we hadn't messed everything up.  I wish I wasn't so stupid and useless and weak and childish and – uggh!"

Hesitantly, Bulkhead let his heavy servos pat the crest of Bumblebee's helm, keeping his movements as light as possible, so as not to hurt the little guy.  He was surprised to find that Bumblebee didn't flinch away, as he tended to when pride was on the line.  "Me too, Little Buddy.  Me too."

The moment was short-lived.  No sooner than Bulkhead had uttered those words, Jazz was strolling down from the lip of the crater, casual and collected as ever.

"Uh, hi Jazz," Bulkhead said, waving at the bot with his free hand.

Bumblebee's reaction was instantaneous.  He leapt from his position, skittering up Bulkhead's side to perch behind his head, frame tense and aggressive, like a cornered cybercat.  "What do _you_ want?"

Jazz offered a low chuckle, which only served to aggravate Bumblebee further.  "I'm just gettin' back in now," he said.

"You find anything?"  Bulkhead asked.

"Nah," he replied with a shake of his head.  "It was a dead end.  No sense in worrying about it further.  Or picking any fights over it," he added, a pointed tone to his otherwise friendly voice.  He'd clearly heard some of their previous conversation.  "We'll figure out our best option from here."

"Oh great.  More waiting," Bumblebee griped, hopping back to the ground.  "So are you sticking around or not, 'cause you're kinda interrupting a private moment between me and my _best friend_."  He fixed a bright glare on Jazz, the effect of which was somewhat dulled by the fact that he had placed himself behind Bulkhead's leg.

Jazz took the hostility as well as to be expected.  "Yeah, actually.  I had a couple things I was wantin' to discuss with Bulkhead, if you got a minute to spare."  Brushed off, Bumblebee bristled once more; Bulkhead could _feel_ the static crackling in the air around him.  But Bumblebee would have to deal with Jazz's presence for a little bit.  If Jazz wanted to talk to _him_ , then it was surely about something serious.

"Yeah.  What do you need?"

Predictably, Bumblebee flung himself away at the presumed betrayal, completely appalled.  "Bulkhead?!  What are you doing?"

"I'm doing what I can to make sure the rest of us get off this planet alive," he turned back to Jazz, not missing the sound of mechanical footsteps slinking back around the corner.  So maybe Bumblebee _wouldn't_ deal with Jazz's presence.  He'd get over it soon enough.  "What did you wanna talk about?"

"I was wondering about the ship, or more specifically, the engines."

"What about them?" Bulkhead said, tilting his head.

"I know it's water under the bridge now, but I can't help wondering what happened there.  I've now had three different individuals claim responsibility.  One was Bee, who only seems to be guilty through negligence."

"Yeah, me too," Bulkhead sighed.  He wasn't completely sure what Jazz was getting at though.

"The second was Sentinel and his crew, who planted the explosives, which I might add, were disarmed before I'd even got there."

"Yeah.  Jetfire said that he was the one who planted them."

"Figured it was something like that," Jazz shrugged.

"But who was the third, then?" Bulkhead asked, genuinely unsure.

"That was Prowl.  He said that he'd jacked a few of the engine cores.  What _I'm_ trying to figure out is if there's any way some missing cores and disarmed explosives could result in the sort of explosion that we had.  And nobody knew those engines better than you – save for Wheeljack, of course, and Perceptor, I guess."

"Well," Bulkhead began, drawing out the word.  "I don't really know for sure.  Probably the only ones who really knew what happened were Ironhide and Wasp."

"They were the ones on engine duty at the time of the explosion, yeah?  I met them.  They were actually the ones to call me in.  Didn't want to move the bomb for fear of settin' it off.  Poor guys."

Bulkhead shuddered.  Rightfully, it should've been him and Bumblebee on duty at the time.  If Optimus hadn't pulled them out of the engine room when he had, then the two of them would be dead right now, just like their former crewmates.  He shook his head, to clear away the thought.

"I can tell you some things that _might_ have happened though," he said at last.  The sudden engine failure of the ship was something that he'd pondered over once or twice, but he'd had no reason to doubt that the bomb had caused the destruction.  He knew engines as well as he knew his own servo, but explosives were a mystery to him.  The engines were kept painstakingly stable, but surely there were explosives powerful enough to incite failure within them.  Or at least, that was what he'd thought.  Hearing that the ship had been sabotaged as well filled in a few holes that he'd stubbornly pushed to the back of his mind time and again.

"I'm listening," Jazz responded.

"Well, so there were twelve engines total, yeah?  Huge things, powered by an individual core and kept in-line with a stabilizer.  Of course, if the cores had just been taken, the engines would've just died.  Remove the power source and they're not gonna explode; that would be dumb.

"But one of our jobs in the engine room was to go into the engines and check that all pieces were in place before we made any jumps.  If Prowl knew that, then he mighta tried to put a decoy in place of the engine cores instead.  If he did this early enough in the trip, then we woulda jumped at some point, and depending on what he used, I could see it creating some kind of feedback – enough so to damage the engines and maybe result in some catastrophic engine failure."

"Enough to cause the explosion?" Jazz pressed.

Bulkhead shook his head.  "No, I don't think so.  It would have thrown off the synchronicity of the engines, and could've accounted for minor temporal-spatial anomalies, but . . ." He cut himself off, scratching his helm, as if doing so could pull the elusive answer from his head.  "Well, on the other hand, _that_ could've caused a malfunction in the stabilizers, which, with a proper catalyst _could_ have resulted in the explosion we found – but I don't know what exactly could've been strong enough to do so.  It's a little outside my area of expertise."

"No, that's good.  I'll have to confirm with Prowl that he left something behind, but I think you're on to something there."  He stared at the ground, a small frown worrying at his lips.

"Jazz?"

The mech shook his head, waving a dismissive hand.  "I don't know what exactly I'm lookin' for, to be honest.  At this point, it shouldn't matter who's guilty – most of us are in one way or another.  But _something_ about this situation is botherin' me – like if I can solve this mystery everything else would resolve itself too."  He let out a laugh.  "That's just wishful thinkin' though.  It's up to Longarm to get us off this planet, ain't it?"

Jazz's words filled Bulkhead with a sense of unease.  Jazz had found nothing at the end of his lead, but so what?  The evidence against Longarm was compelling, and Bulkhead was not going to find him any more trustworthy just because Jazz's had yet to find anything more substantial.  He didn't like the idea of putting his fate in the hands of such a mech.  If there was any chance of saving themselves without relying on Longarm, Bulkhead was ready to try it.

"Well, there's one more thing.  It's probably nothing.  Longarm said it was nothing, but I thought I'd double check with you first."

Jazz perked up, turning his thoughtful face towards Bulkhead's.  "I'm listenin.'"

"Well, the engines were designed by Wheeljack, I don't think that's much of a secret.  But we were reading Sentinel's logs earlier today, and he said that Wheeljack was also the one who designed the bomb.  It was never meant to go off.  I don't know if this means anything, but it stuck out to me."

Jazz folded his arms and let out a heavy vent.  "I don't know if I can say one way or the other.  I ain't got any reason to doubt Wheeljack's integrity – he's been fightin' for the Autobots since the last great war.  And he's got loads of inventions under his belt – the fact that two of them happen to be related in this case could be coincidence . . ." he trailed off, rubbing his chin.

"You think so?"

Jazz shrugged, noncommittally.  "Though does this brings to mind another interestin' point.  The fancy-aft quantum engines were supposed to be a secret to all but a select few.  I found out from Wheeljack himself, but the mech who set Prowl up for this seemed to know all about 'em as well.  I don't know who that guy was, but I'm really interested in knowin' how _he_ came across such top secret intel."  He pondered it over for another moment, before releasing his arms to fall at his side in defeat.

"Man, I got nothin.'  I don't know if we'll ever figure this out.  I don't know if it's even worth solving.  But thanks for tellin' me.  I'll talk to Prowl and see if he's up for divulging a little more info.  And maybe Jetfire knows a thing or two about the explosives.  Guess it's all I can really do right now."

He slumped over, a defeated look about him.  Bulkhead wasn't sure he understood why Jazz, of all bots, had given up so easily.  One failed lead, and here he was proclaiming that all he could do now was solve useless mysteries.  Something about it didn't add up to Bulkhead.  He couldn't help but think back to their earlier conversation.

Jazz had promised that he'd be more honest with them.  Had he kept his word?  Had he really told Bulkhead all that he knew?  Had his lead _really_ lead him nowhere? Bulkhead had his doubts.

Regardless, there was another reason that Jazz's comments didn't sit well with Bulkhead, and that reason was small, yellow, and hiding behind the corner, eavesdropping.

"Well, I mean, there is one more thing you can do," Bulkhead said, tone coy. 

"What's that?"

Bulkhead jerked his head towards the corner that Bumblebee had disappeared behind.  "Talk to Bumblebee.  He's really angry at you, and I know it's dumb, but I don't really blame him."

"I don't really got time for personal drama right now," Jazz muttered.

Bulkhead was not to be swayed.  "It's not just personal drama, though.  It's for the good of the group.  We're a broken mess, Jazz.  And if you and Bumblebee making up helps fix us in any way, then shouldn't you at least try?"

Jazz offered a dismissive shrug in response.  "I agree with what you sayin,' but Bee's gotta meet me halfway on this one.  He's energetic, enthusiastic, and capable of a lot more than he seems to think he is, but he's still young and selfish.  He needs to realize that 'no,' means 'no,' and that the best way to deal with rejection is not to sabotage the well-being of everyone around him."

Jazz was right of course, but Bulkhead didn't want to accept it.  Selfish or not, Bumblebee was still his best friend, and he hated seeing him in pain. 

"That's true, but you're really good at people, Jazz.  You can talk to other bots and they listen to you!  Bumblebee doesn't got that skill yet.  Can't you just – try?"

A resigned sigh escaped Jazz's vents.  "I'll see what I can do, but I ain't makin' any promises.  Bumblebee's not gonna start feelin' better if he doesn't let himself.

"Anyway, I'm bowing out for now.  Got some reports to make, and I know Bee's wantin' to get his butt back over here.  I ain't gonna stand in the way of that.  Peace."  He gave one more lazy wave before taking off, rounding the corner opposite of Bumblebee, and disappearing from sight.

The moment Jazz was gone, Bumblebee indeed came peeking around his own corner.  "Is he gone?"

"Yeah Little Buddy," Bulkhead said with a sigh.

"Good!  I didn't want to talk to him anyway."

He really was growing tired of Bumblebee's impudence.  With an angry huff, Bulkhead transformed into his alt mode, standing tall and silent in the cool night air.  It was enough for Bumblebee to take the hint.

"What?  What did I say?"  the little bot said, throwing his arms up in confusion.

"Don't tell me you didn't hear what Jazz and I were talking about.  I know you were waiting right around the corner the whole time!"

"Yeah, so?"

"So what I said to him applies to you, too!  Get over yourself and at least _try_ to work together!  We don't need any more fighting right now!"

"Psh," Bumblebee waved a dismissive servo.  "What you said was, 'Jazz, you're better at this kinda thing than Bumblebee, so you should be the one making up with him."

"I don't _care_ what I said," Bulkhead griped.  "I'm recharging now.  I am _so_ done with today."  The conversation should've ended right there, but he never could resist Bumblebee's pouty face. 

"What?" he said, after a moment of wibbly optics staring at him.

"Y-yeah, I'm sorry.  You're right.  Today's been just – maybe one of the worst days of my life – well, after that time the ship blew up, and that time Sentinel tried to kill me, and that time that I found Ratchet dead and under a – well anyway, yeah.  Today was pretty awful."

Bulkhead's frame dipped in a full-body sigh.  "Yeah.  I'm sorry for snapping.  I guess everything's just really stressful.  We're still friends though.  A bad day's not gonna change _that_."

"Right, of course," Bumblebee nodded, though his voice was small.  "Look, I'll deal with Jazz later.  I think, maybe for right now, I want to recharge too.  Do you mind if I stay with you tonight?"

Had Bulkhead a mouth in his current form, he would have been smiling.  "Yeah, Little Buddy.  Any time."

Without another word, Bumblebee sprung forward and skittered up Bulkhead's side, sprawling out across his canopy.  It wasn't the first time they'd recharged like this by any means, and Bulkhead always found it to be a little endearing.   Bumblebee's presence there at his back was familiar, comforting even.  Today had been horrifying, and tomorrow could just as easily be the same.  Which of his friends would still be alive at the end of the day?  Would Longarm show his true colors?  Whose side was Blurr on?

But there was no use dwelling on it for now.  He'd vowed to be more proactive, but for the moment, the entire investigation was in the hands of Jazz, Optimus, and Prowl.  Bulkhead wanted to help, wanted to be integral – but the fact of the matter was, he didn't know how.  He'd never been one to stick his olfactory sensors into the affairs of others, had never been given to doubting the words of his superiors.  Bulkhead was a simple bot.  He just hoped that he could move past his limitations that long enough to prevent another catastrophe.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. Real life's been kicking my butt this past week, so it took me a moment to get back into the groove. Hopefully I'll be able to get the next one out a bit faster. I feel this arc is coming to a close soon, and that should take us into the final one...maybe? yeesh


	32. Liar Liar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blurr comes to terms with what he's doing.

A red sun shone down from the black sky above, hot and intense, watching Blurr like some kind of villainous eye, mocking him as he ran, ran, ran through the nondescript forest.  He'd been running for hours now; his plating was well-overheated, even flared out as it was, vents running full-blast.  His legs were sore and trembling, threatening to give out at his first misstep, and his tanks were begging to purge, but his spark – that still burned brightly, pushing him onwards out of fear and desperation.  If he dared to stop, he would parish; the monster still followed close behind.

Blurr was fast – faster than even _he_ knew.  He should have been able to outrun the creature with ease.  And yet, he just couldn't shake it.  Massive claws of cold steel, were always just a step away, ready to capture him in their grasp should he falter, to never let go again.  Somewhere deep down, he knew that he never _could_ outrun those claws – there was nowhere he could go, nowhere he could hide – not on Energoa, nor Cybertron, nor anywhere in the _universe_.

He thought of giving in.  Maybe the monster wouldn't kill him?  Maybe it was benign, maybe it was lonely, maybe it sought not a victim, but a friend, or even a lover?  Panic overtook Blurr and he put on an extra burst of speed.  But it was all over. 

He hadn't seen the tree.  He _always_ saw the obstacles in his path well before he reached them, but not this time.  There wasn't time to stop.  He braced himself for impact, and the horrid fate that would surely follow once that monster caught up  . . .

It was the impact that woke Blurr, and he onlined his optics, coming face-to-face with a cold, grey wall, opposite the one he'd passed out beside.  Looking across the room, and taking a moment to allow the world to stop spinning, he saw a rather substantial dent in the far wall.  He must have kicked off quite hard.  Prowl and Jetfire watched him from nearby, lingering signs of sleep on the edge of their alert faces; the sound of the impact must have woken them as well.  Longarm, meanwhile, sat at the desk in the center of the room.  He made no movement to get up, but watched Blurr with reserved optics.

"Are you all right?" Prowl ventured, once it became clear that Longarm was not going to help Blurr.

Blurr gave a sharp nod.  "Yes, I am fine.  This sort of thing used to happen all the time – well, I mean, I still have been known to kick while in recharge, but it hasn't been bad enough to actually move me in awhile, vorns at least, probably even longer.  I'll chalk it up to stress, I suppose, and be more careful in the future.  Sorry to wake you."  He was back to speaking at his normal, quick speed, (as opposed to the hyper-speed babbling he'd been prone to the previous night) despite his racing spark, and the voice in the back of his processor that urged him to keep on running.  He saw it as an improvement.

"Is that so?" Prowl said after a moment's pause, tone neutral, unreadable.  "I'm sorry to hear that.  It must be troublesome."

Blurr didn't want to talk to Prowl right now.  Blurr wanted to talk to Shockwave, who was keeping a respectful and frustrating distance.  Of course, it was probably for the best.  He couldn't say any of the things he wanted to in front of Jetfire, and he _definitely_ couldn't say them in front of Prowl.  The ninja had obviously been sent by Optimus to keep an optic on them, judging by the Prime's insistence that he stay in the ship last night.  On the other hand, Blurr wasn't entirely convinced that he _did_ want to talk to Shockwave, so at least Prowl's presence made his decision easier.

At the very least, he figured he should _probably_ respond to Prowl. 

"Well I mean, like I was saying, it hasn't been a problem for a long time now, but it was quite a hassle in the past.  I've had enough collisions over the years that most of the time they don't bother me that much anymore, but they're still never very fun to wake up to."  He noticed, from the corner of his optic, that Longarm – _Shockwave_ was still watching him, very intently, with a look of concern.  _Why didn't he just come over here and say something?_

"But like I said," he continued, unconsciously picking up the pace, though Prowl gave no indication that he couldn't keep up.  "I was just really stressed yesterday, and I was glitching out from all of the stress, I mean it was a very big deal, a _huge_ deal really, it's not every day that – well _that_ happens, and it was stressful and I think he may have damaged me more than I first suspected because I –" he forced himself to slow down, acutely aware of the tiny downward turn at the corner of Prowl's mouth.  "I'm sorry," he droned, with great effort.  "I think thinking about it is just upsetting me more to think about and I can't stop thinking about it and then I start talking faster and faster and faster and-" he cut himself off again. 

Not only was he having difficulty in regulating his speed, but he'd fallen back on his old habit of repeating himself to boot.  Just how badly had Sentinel broken him?  Spark damage was a serious issue, and he could still feel the squeeze of Sentinel's fat fingers, and the stab of his own glass.  It was a small wonder he was making any sense at all.  "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" he repeated.  "I know I'm annoying and you probably can't understand a word I'm saying, but I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry . . ."  He cut himself off again, mortified at the increasingly baffled look on Prowl's face.

"Are you certain you're all right?  This sounds like-"

"I'm fine!" he interrupted.  "I'm fine I'm fine I'm sorry!  I just – I need to step outside for some air, outside away from this room and everyone and outside where it's open and I gotta go now!" He could see Shockwave – Longarm rising to his feet out of the corner of his optic, as though he were about to finally acknowledge him, but Blurr didn't want to hear it.  He zipped out of the room like his life depended on it, like those claws were still chasing him beneath the red glow of the sun.  Nobody followed him.

The outside world was quiet and peaceful.  The sky was still the soft indigo of pre-dawn, the first birds were beginning to sing, Optimus was fast asleep, back seated against the sloping wall of the crater.  With soft footsteps, Blurr slipped by him and up to the forest beyond.  He didn't stop. 

He was running again, with no destination in mind, no heroic deed in need of pursuing.  It was just him, the ground beneath him, and the wind blowing into his face.  _This_ was what he'd been forged for; it felt amazing.

He took to a familiar path, following the circumference of the island that he had mapped out on that first day in the forest, and let loose, allowing his memory to guide him as he flew across the forest floor, alongside the steep cliffs and over the rivers.  Moving like this, he almost felt as though he could outrun this past deca-cycle.  Outrun the misery, the horror of the things that had been done to him, maybe even outrun Shockwave.

The image of those claws came to him once again, reaching for him, trying to restrain him, imprison him.  He skidded to a halt, grazing a low hanging branch with a shoulder pauldron.  He didn't notice.

He couldn't outrun Shockwave.  It didn't matter how fast he ran, how clever he got trying to shake the trail.  The fact of the matter was, he couldn't outrun Shockwave because he didn't want to.  The brute had wormed his way into Blurr's life, won him over with kindness, made him dependent on the love of Longarm Prime.  He'd saved his life time and again, even going so far as to drop his cover to do so.  And now . . . He looked down at the white plating over his chest, a stark contrast to his once black windshield.  Shockwave had done that too.  There was a part of Shockwave welded to his own frame now.  He'd given up a part of himself for Blurr's own benefit.

He wasn't sure if he could ever accept that that monster loved him, but he couldn't deny his own feelings.  For better or worse (worse, worse, _so_ much worse), he'd been bonded to Shockwave, without so much as a union of their sparks.  He couldn't fight it, so he might as well embrace it.

But he was also fully aware that doing so would be to turn his back on his own people.

Shockwave was not some innocuous grunt or second-tier henchman.  He was one of Megatron's oldest and most loyal of followers.  And he had planted himself in a position to turn the tide of the war.  To turn him in was to lose the one thing he cared about more than any other, but to leave him to his own devices . . . He may as well be handing over Cybertron to the Decepticons himself.

Gritting his dentae, Blurr took off again, putting on an extra burst of speed.  It was dangerous to be moving so quickly in such an obstacle-laden area, but Blurr couldn't slow down.  If he hesitated any longer, allowed himself time to think, then he'd actually have to come to terms with the treason he was committing.

But it didn't stop the thoughts from invading his head anyway.

He was an Autobot by birth, an Autobot by blood.  He'd been born in an Autobot colony, trained at the Autobot academy, and served in the Autobot military.  He hated high command – the late Sentinel Prime in particular, but his time away – time that granted him thought and perspective, found him growing a subtle distaste for Ultra Magnus, and for the other council members, for Perceptor and Alpha Trion, for every lying politician – all of the Ratbats, the Proteuses, the Decimuses.  But the Autobots were more than their leaders.  There were tens of thousands of civilians out there – artists and scientists, students, entrepreneurs, and otherwise.  Tens of thousands of bots who had never set foot in a battlefield, who had never laid eyes on a Decepticon.  Bumblebee and Bulkhead came to mind.  Blurr knew full-well what would happen to the likes of _them_ should the might-worshipping Decepticons take over.  If he didn't turn Shockwave in, he was condemning all of those mechs and femmes to death.  How could he live with himself if he allowed it?

And moreover, did it matter if he told at all?  Shockwave was not exactly a subtle mech, a fact which he could hide on Cybertron, immersed in a stable and predictable environment, surrounded by mechs who were too blinded by his charming smile and uncanny ability to be whatever they wanted to be, to notice just how shady some of his actions were.  Blurr certainly hadn't.  But out here, where everything was chaos, and death struck on a whim, Shockwave's façade was beginning to slip.  And sharper mechs like Jazz were now in close proximity.  Pit, there was a strong chance that Jazz already knew and was keeping it to himself for one reason or another.  And if Shockwave didn't kill him first, then Jazz was in the same position as Blurr. 

And if Jazz knew, had he told Optimus?  Had he told Prowl?  And at the very least, Jetfire had made it clear that memories or no, he didn't trust Longarm.  If they managed to make it back to Cybertron, it would be difficult for Shockwave to slip back into his original position as head of Intel without killing everyone on the island . . .

But what if they never went back at all?  If they stayed here, then no one else would have to die!  He'd still have Shockwave, and he wouldn't have to betray his entire faction to get him.  It was win-win!  Sure, the others may take issue with being trapped on an isolated planet forever, but they'd get over it.  Shockwave clearly had a reliable means of acquiring food.  They could still have their happily ever after, if they only stayed here!  It was the only way.

The morning sun had fully risen by the time Blurr returned to camp.  Bumblebee and Bulkhead offered Blurr a confused hello as he zipped back into the crater, and he gave a polite nod in response. But he didn't stop to chat.  The door to the ship was wide open, and he could see Longarm sitting at the desk, fully absorbed in fiddling with the communication device he'd been working on.  Blurr knew that he'd need to sabotage Shockwave's progress in that endeavor, but that could wait.  Right now all he wanted to was to be close to him once again.  Blurr had requested space (in not so many words, nor so polite), and Shockwave had respected him enough to give it.  It was the obvious reason for his sudden distance all morning.  Blurr found it to be rather endearing, but right now he needed to touch the warm and familiar metal of that broad chest, to feel the solid presence of that EM field, to be near to him, to be _one_ with him.  He wanted Shockwave.  And he would have Shockwave.  There was nothing standing between them anymore.

Except for Optimus Prime.

"Ah Sir!  How can I  - is everything all right?  I'm trying to get in there to report to Longarm, but you're blocking the door.  Why are you blocking the door?  Do you suppose you could stand aside so that I can get by you and into the room?"  He'd managed to keep his words at a reasonable speed, though the urge for repetition was hard to shake.

"Actually, Blurr.  There's something I'd like to speak with you about.  Do you have a minute?" said the Prime, his voice gentle, but the look on his face was all business.

Primus, this was it, wasn't it?  Optimus was here to throw a wrench into his brief moment of serenity.  Blurr wanted to push past the Prime, to ignore him and go to Shockwave, wrap his arms over those wide shoulder, press himself close, bask in that presence.  But he supposed doing that wouldn't go over well with Optimus, especially in a position as precarious as his own.

"Oh, of course Sir!  We can talk!  That is perfectly fine.  There is not a thing I would rather do at this moment than partake in conversation with you, even though I'd really like to go in there and talk to Longarm, but I'm sure you want to talk to me about something important, so I will hold off for a bit if you so insist."  Okay, that had been a bit abrasive.  Optimus would probably let it slide though.  No bot could say that he lacked understanding.  Still, it was probably best to _not_ offend a potential enemy. 

"I mean, I'm sorry.  That was rude of me.  I've had a lot on my mind since yesterday evening, I'm sure you're aware, so forgive me if I say something inappropriate.  I'll try harder to keep my mouth shut."

Optimus shook his head with a sympathetic smile.  "Don't worry about it.  You've been through a lot lately.  I can understand you being upset.  I just had a few questions for you, if you wouldn't mind stepping this way."  He gestured with an open servo, away from the door, away from Shockwave.  Blurr did not like where this was going, but he didn't feel comfortable refusing.

"Okay Sir, how can I help you?"

"I was actually wondering," said Optimus softly, as they came into position well away from the open door of the ship, well out of Shockwave's range of hearing, "where you came across that energon you found."

 Blurr froze, mind running frantic circles trying to work out a solution to this problem.  Why had he gone and done something stupid like that?  His guilt over the energon situation was going to ruin everything! 

Optimus continued.  "Don’t get me wrong, I'm glad you were able to find it.  It just strikes me as a little odd that you were able to come across so much refined energon just lying around.  I'd like to know where you found it.  Or if there was more."

What could he even say?  To tell the truth would get Longarm in trouble – it wouldn’t necessarily expose him as Shockwave, but it wouldn't look good.  But what else was there to say?  Energon wasn't just lying around in the middle of the forest, and if anyone other than Cliffjumper had noticed the healthy sheen to his plating, then he looked _incredibly_ suspicious right now.  Who was he kidding?  Jazz had _surely_ noticed.  He noticed everything!  But maybe Optimus hadn't?

"I found it in a cave while I was out with Cliffjumper yesterday . . ."  Well that part wasn't a lie, at least.  But the look on Optimus's face told him that it wouldn't be enough.  "At the time, I wasn't one hundred percent sure why there was a big stockpile of energon hiding in a cave in the middle of the forest, but after yesterday's encounter, I think it's safe to say that what I came across was Shockwave's own supply.  Which I suppose means that I stole from one of the most terrifying Decepticons on record and I'm actually starting to feel a little faint right now."  He stumbled backward to emphasize his words.  It wasn't hard to act the part – panic came easy to him when Shockwave's, and by extension _his_ secret was on the line.

Optimus held out a hand to steady him.  "Do you remember where this cave is?"  he asked?

Blurr nodded.  "Yeah I do.  I'll send you a map with its location marked."  He'd have to give up their secret spot, but he figured if he was eager enough to help out, it might be enough to distract Optimus from further suspicion. 

It wasn't.

"Was that the only cave you've found?  With energon in it, I mean?"

Optimus had noticed his healthy colors after all.  Why else would he ask such a question?  Frag frag frag! 

"It is," Blurr said, struggling to remain calm and confident.  "But that wasn't the first time I'd found energon there.  Longarm and I had been scoping it for awhile and pilfering some of its contents from time-to-time.  I was worried about taking anything.  I mean, it was so well-stocked!  It was clear that someone was living there, and I didn't want them to find out we were stealing from them, but Longarm was just so worried about me – you know how he gets, and after Ratchet died, I had no other way of acquiring med grade, so yeah, we were stealing from what was probably Shockwave's personal supply.  I figured we'd get caught sooner or later, so I didn't want to drag the rest of you into it, but when it started looking desperate, I decided that there was no other choice.  Cliffjumper helped talk me into it.  But I wonder now if _that_ was what drove Shockwave out into the open . . ."

The lie seemed to be working.  Optimus's expression softened, and he allowed his EM field to relax, projecting understanding.  Blurr thought he would die of relief. 

"I see.  That makes a lot of sense, actually," Optimus said, folding his arms.

Thank Primus.  "I apologize for not telling you sooner, Sir.  I promise it won't happen again."

"Of course.  I understand.  Thank you for your time.  Go on in and talk to Longarm."

"Yes Sir!  Thank you Sir!" Blurr said in a rush before zipping off for the ship and his own Prime.  He was feeling confident.  Optimus had believed his lie.  He'd come up with a solution to his _own_ dilemma.  He was on a roll.

Once inside the ship, the world around him disappeared, dissolving away until it was only himself and Longarm Prime – Shockwave.  Shockwave's optics met his own, still guarded, but he could sense a twinge of anticipation as well.  With no warning, he threw himself at the smaller, portly mech, grasping at any surface his slight hands could find purchase on, and kissing him fiercely, again and again with a speed only he could muster.

Shockwave faltered for a painful moment, taken by surprise, uncertain whether or not Blurr would shy away again, as he had last night.  But when Blurr remained, he conceded to his will, and allowed his fingertips to settle lightly against Blurr's hips.

"Blurr," he said between kisses, but Blurr didn't want to talk right now.  He kept onward with his assault, kissing along Longarm's lips, his cheeks, his jaw, chinstrap, even Shockwave's true eye, reveling in the way the latter elicited a full-body shudder from the con.  He managed to get his arms over Longarm's shoulders, between the treads, and with the new leverage, pushed himself off the ground for long enough to wrap his spindly legs around Longarm's waist.  Longarm was quick to adjust for the sudden additional weight, holding firmly onto Blurr's hips, and backed into the wall for support.

"Blurr," he tried again, more firmly this time.  It only fueled Blurr's efforts.  With his hands, with his lips, he touched everywhere he could reach, while his legs pushed them closer together.   He was going to have this.  He wanted this.  He _needed_ this.  If he stopped now, he feared he never would.

"Desist this," Longarm said again, this time in Shockwave's voice.  It sent vibrations straight through to Blurr's damaged spark, and he trembled, his processor suddenly filled with images of those claws, tearing Sentinel Prime's body apart, ripping off his carriage, annihilating his spark.  In an instant, the life fled from his limbs, leaving his frame hanging limply in Shockwave's arms.  If Shockwave hadn't already been supporting his entire weight, he would have fallen then and there.

"Why?"  Blurr asked, once he'd managed enough mental wherewithal to speak.  "This is what you want, isn't it?  It's what _I_ want!  Why do you want me to stop?  I don't want to stop!  Please don't make me stop!  Please please please!"

Gently, Shockwave lowered him down to the ground, but to Blurr's surprise, he found himself pulled in close the second his feet touched the floor, with Longarm's clumsy hands tracing soothing circles onto his back plating.  He melted into touch, resting his head against the top of one of Longarm's treads with a soft sigh.  "Longarm, please," he whispered one last time.

"You are correct," Shockwave answered, in Longarm's voice this time.  "It is something I would greatly enjoy.  But I'm not certain that now is the time _or_ place.  You took much damage yesterday, to your body and spark alike.  I admit that I am hesitant to allow anything we may regret later while you remain in such a frantic state."

"I'm fine.  I've made up my mind.  I have," he mumbled, shuttering his optics as Longarm's hands moved lower, dipping under his backplate, seeking out the protoform beneath.

"Is that so?" he said with a doubtful tone.  It would have been foolish to talk more on the subject in their present location, but it was clear that this conversation wasn't over yet.  Come to think of it . . .

Blurr onlined his optics and glanced lazily around the room.  He and Shockwave were the only occupants, but the door remained wide open, and one of the others could come in at any moment.  Shockwave was right.  This was not the place.  "We could go to the –" he cut himself off.  He'd compromised the cave; they couldn't go back.  "No we can't.  Never mind."

"No?" From his tone, it was clear that Shockwave had picked up on the words he'd left unsaid.    "What a shame.  I'll find something else for us.  But not right now.  I told you.  I doubt your body could handle it right now, and even if it could, your mind and spark certainly cannot."

"I'm fine!" he insisted.  "I've never wanted anything more in my life.  _Please_ Longarm.  I need this right now!  I need you.  I need to be closer.  I'm not close enough!  I'm not!  There's too much distance between us, even with me right here and you right there.  You're still too far away and I hate it! 

"I know that a lot happened yesterday, and I know that I sound crazy right about now, and I know that he broke me – I know it, I'm not stupid.  I can feel it, like something's missing, like something's not right inside me.  And I was afraid at first, I couldn't have you near me without remembering – without being pulled back to that moment, those awful _hands_ touching me, hurting me, _violating_ me –" he cut himself off.  Letting out a short, shuddering vent, before continuing, even faster.

" But I was thinking a lot while I was out running this morning, and I realized that you're the cure I need.  You always have been, and I know that you manipulated things to make it so, and I know that you told me lies and you're not really a very good person, and I can't even bring myself to care anymore!  I want you, Longarm.  I'll do anything to keep us together, and maybe this is my fragged-up spark talking right now, but I need this so much it hurts, so please please please please!  We don't even have to go all that far, I just –" he cut himself off by a ping from his comm.  Jazz.  The last mech he wanted to talk to right now, as worked-up as he was.

"Blurr?" Shockwave asked, puzzled.  "What is it?"

"It's just my comm.  Doesn't matter."

"Your comm?  You should take that.  It could be important."

With reluctance, Blurr peeled himself away from Longarm, already hating how cold his body felt when it wasn't attached to that wonderful, warm frame.  To his further distaste, Longarm gave no visible reaction to the separation.  Blurr couldn't tell whether or not his pleading had gotten through to him.  It didn't do much to improve his mood.

"What?" he snapped into the comm.

" _Good morning sunshine.  Nice to talk to you too."_

_"_ I'm a little busy right now," Blurr responded, tapping his foot impatiently against the floor.  "Can't this wait?"

" _You with Longarm?"_ Jazz said with a wink in his voice.  The bastard thought he knew _exactly_ what he was interrupting.

"What does it matter to you?"

" _'Cause that's what I'm calling about."_

Blurr had nothing to say to that.  Why did everyone want to interrogate him today?  Because they suspected, obviously.  They suspected Longarm, and were trying to use him to find out more.  Blurr bit back a growl.  He'd barely come out of the last interrogation without ruining everything, and that one hadn't been with _Jazz_.

" _You still there?"_ the voice on the other end asked.

"Yeah.  What do you want to know?"

" _How much do you trust Longarm Prime?"_

Blurr narrowed his optics, a gesture that was, of course, lost on Jazz.  "With my life, why?"

" _Well,"_ Jazz said, drawing out the word.  _"What would you do if I told you he's been working behind our backs?"_

Jazz knew.  He knew he knew he knew!  Jazz couldn't know!  He'd ruin everything!  Some part of Blurr told him that Jazz knowing wasn't the end of the world, that he himself had suspected as much, that it wouldn't matter anyway if his own plan worked as he hoped it would, but it was drowned out by the deafening scream of panic.

"What do you mean by that?!"  Longarm gave him a wary look at the outburst, but said nothing.

_"What I mean is, he's been working with the spider-femme to find his own way off the planet, and we're not included in the plan."_

That . . . had not been the answer Blurr had expected.  His spark froze.  Could Jazz's words be true, or was he bluffing?  Shockwave had told him nothing of the sort.  Had he intended to leave without _him_?  Was it true then?  Was he just being used as a pawn in some game that he could never hope to understand?  He deflated instantly, only able to let out a weak, "What?" in response.

" _I take it you didn't know then.  That's gotta hurt."_

Blurr's plating was trembling.  That wasn't good.  He didn't want to feel this way anymore – lost and helpless and weak, weak, weak, at the mercy of beings more wise, more powerful than he could ever hope to be.  He felt Longarm's arms wrap around and around his waist, and his passion turned to dread in an instant.  He thought he would be sick.  But it would be suspicious to pull away now.  His legs chose to give out instead, and together they collapsed slowly to the floor, Longarm protectively huddled over him, nuzzling gently at the back of his neck.  Jazz was lying!  Longarm wouldn't leave him behind!

" _What do you want from me?_ " he commed back, opening up his own private line.

" _I wanted you to know.  That's all,"_ Jazz replied.  Like the Pit that was all!  " _I came across their cave last night.  The spider filled me in.  They've been building a space bridge to get off planet._

_"What?  How?  We're in the middle of an uninhabited organic wasteland with barely enough resources to make_ energon _!  How did they manage a_ space bridge _?!"_

_"Dunno.  I'm no expert on things like that.  All I know is what I saw.  I wasn't sure if I wanted to tell the others or not, but I figured that, of the lot of us, you were most capable of receiving this intel and not doing anything stupid with it.  I'm thinkin' we might be able to work out a solution without having to deal with the mess of dragging the others into it.  What do you think?"_

"Blurr, are you all right?  What did he say?" Longarm cooed in his audial.  Blurr shuddered. 

"He had a run in with the spiders.  Almost died, I guess and I just – I started – I mean, after yesterday, if anyone else were to die – and my mind started racing, and I couldn't stop thinking about what would have happened if he'd – if Jazz had – and it's stupid, I know.  He's fine!  He's all right, but what if he hadn't been?!  What if – gaah!"  His vocaliser broke down into static – even _he_ was beginning to believe his lie.  Hopefully Shockwave would too.  It felt weird to be lying to Shockwave, of all mechs, but he supposed it was mutual.

Furthermore, this news brought up further issues – issues that interfered with his own plans.  If Shockwave had a space bridge close to completion, then he was in more trouble than he'd thought.  But did it even matter if they got off-planet at this point?

"You're fine.  It's all right, everything is fine," Shockwave continued, daring to slip into his true voice, which was cold and flat, matter-of-fact, even, despite the comforting words.  Somehow, it made him feel better.  "It seems that spider is becoming quite the nuisance." 

He'd fallen for it.  Blurr really _was_ on a roll today.

_"I don't suppose you could tell me where this space bridge is?"_

There was a pause on the other end.  " _Suppose so,"_ Jazz said at last.  _"It ain't finished yet, and there are some pretty beefy Decepticons guarding the place, so I don't recommend paying a visit, but I'll mark it on a map.  Just don't do anything stupid.  This could be_ our _ticket home too."_

_"Of course,_ " he replied.  " _Blurr out."_

He felt cold as he cut the connection.  Empty.  Betrayed.  It was for the better.  He was supposed to hate Shockwave.  Shockwave was supposed to be his enemy.  This was the way things were meant to be.  No dilemmas, no lose-lose scenarios.  Autobot and Decepticon as mortal enemies, not friends, and _never_ lovers.  But his spark, broken, shattered thing that it was, refused to accept it.  It still clung to Shockwave, like a fresh protoform. 

Of course, there was an easy way to know for sure.

"Longarm," he mumbled, barely audible.

"Yes?"

"There's nothing you've been keeping from me, is there?  I mean, aside from the obvious, 'cause as much as I hate it, I can understand why you'd be less than inclined to tell me such things, but if there's anything else, I'd like to know.  I don't want any more lies between us."  He said, keenly aware of the irony of those words after what he'd just said, and what he may yet do, based on Shockwave's answer.

Shockwave said nothing for a long moment as he mulled over Blurr's words.  Blurr had no doubt that he was piecing together Jazz's side of the conversation.

"Does he know?"

Blurr shook his head.  "All he said was that you were building a space bridge with the spiders.  Is that true?"

"It is," he said, direct, blunt, honest.  Blurr felt a small weight leave his spark.  And then Shockwave continued of his own accord.  "The spider began working on it long ago, I found her not long after our arrival, and offered my help.  It is soon to be completed.  And then we can get away from this wretched place, and back to our lives, you an I."

Blurr said nothing.  Shockwave had told him everything he'd wanted to hear.  And likewise, his own decision was made.  He and Shockwave – together for eternity. 

It was unlikely that Shockwave hadn't concocted some plan of his own by this point for after their escape, but Blurr didn't want to hear it.  He didn't want to know what Shockwave's intentions for him or the future were.  They didn't matter, because there never _were_ going to escape.  Blurr would see to that.

He shifted, turning around to face Longarm, who watched him with affection, not so much in his face, but in his touch, in the electricity that jumped between them, filling Blurr's frame with a new heat.  Steeling his tanks to drown out the panicky voices Jazz had left running through his head, to wipe away every part of his programming that told him that this was a bad idea, he leaned in close, and pressed his mouth to Longarm's in another deep kiss.  He'd stopped running.  He was in the monster's claws now, and he was going to do everything in his power to ensure that he stayed that way. 


	33. Sparkbond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl tries to contact the outside world, fearful that someone else will die if they remain on this planet any longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have drawn more art for this, like a nerd.  
> So [here](http://darksidekelz.tumblr.com/post/131079186634/in-todays-episode-of-pimp-my-fanfic-i-make-an) is a pic for chapter 26. Yay.

He hadn't expected the pain to be quite so intense.  It burned and pulsed, spreading out through his circuits, to pedes and fingertips alike, as his spark wholly rejected the living energy that forced itself upon him, tried in a vain effort to invade his soul.  But he did not show his pain.  Years of living in the Praxian and then the Iaconian underground, where any sign of vulnerability meant death, had taught him to put on a bold front, and centuries of meditation and training under the great Yoketron helped him to block negative sensations.  In the end, it was Jetfire who pulled away first.

"Ah!  It hurts!" he cried out, Jerking away from Prowl's open chest as though bitten. 

"Keep going," Prowl said, words neutral, calm.  The world had been falling apart for too long, and finally, _finally_ he was willing and able to do something about it.  It was a high he was in no hurry to come down from.

Across from him, Jetfire was already showing signs of fatigue.  His plating rattled weakly against his protoform, and his chestplates, still partially scorched from yesterday, struggled to remain open.  His vents were running on high, and his optics were dim and glazed.  The young bot wouldn't last long at this rate. 

As predicted, it wasn't long before he pulled away from Prowl altogether, slamming shut his open chest and hiding his exposed spark.  "No!  I am done!  I am not even understanding why we be doing this!  Is gross and wrong and I am being done!"

He wasn't going to force the issue.  Showing no sign of emotional reaction to Jetfire's words, Prowl replaced the plating over his own spark. 

"I know this is difficult for you, Jetfire, especially right now of all times.  But that is precisely why it has to be you."

Jetfire shook his head.  "I am not understanding you!  _Why_ does it have to be me?"

"Because it is _incredibly_ difficult to double bond a spark, and I don't want to risk any actual, accidental-"

"But why are we making of the bonding of sparks?!" Jetfire interrupted.  Had the inhibitor clamp not been in place, then flames would certainly be blossoming around him at this very moment.  "I am no understanding!  How is this contacting your friend to get us off the planet?"

Prowl shook his head with a sigh.  "I suppose you do not know as much about this issue as I had given you credit for."

The fire extinguished from Jetfire's optics, just like that, and he stared at Prowl, unsure whether or not to be offended.  "Wha?"

"I'm trying to contact my own bond-mate, and since standard means of communication are cut off to us, I'm using the only other means of communication I have available to me."

At Jetfire's continued dumbfounded expression, Prowl figured that further elaboration was in order. 

"I also take it you haven't done much experimentation with spark play."

"I am not knowing what that is."

Prowl had figured as much.  This bot was young yet, and from the countryside, as best as Prowl could tell.  It was no wonder he'd managed to retain his naivety.  It didn't make Prowl's task at hand any easier, however.

"I know this will be a difficult subject matter for you right now, but may I ask you about your bond with Jetstorm, just for a moment?"

Jetfire fell silent, breaking eye contact to stare pointedly at the floor.  Prowl wasn't entirely certain how to feel about the situation.  It was true that Jetfire had only himself to blame for his current state of affairs.  Orders or not, he had assisted in the assault on Blurr, not to mention the assaults on Cliffjumper, Bumblebee, and Prowl, himself.  It should have been difficult to feel too much sympathy for the kid, but that was just it: he was a kid.  He didn't know what he was doing; as far as he and his late brother had been concerned, Sentinel Prime might as well have been Primus himself, and he was just so earnest.  It was difficult to hold a grudge, even if Prowl had every reason to.

"You can be asking," he said, bitter and guarded.  "But I may not be answering."

Prowl nodded his understanding.  "That is fair.  My question directly pertains to our own current activities.  The two of you did not share a traditional spark bond, brought together by birth rather than choice, but as far as I am aware, it generally works the same."

The look on Jetfire's face made it clear that he was already struggling to keep up, but he made no indication of it.  "We were as one, if that is what you are saying."

"Indeed.  That's what a spark bond is: two bots as one being.  I imagine you could feel reflections of his own emotions, and he yours.  You knew when he was happy, sad, scared, am I correct in saying?"

"You are," Jetfire hazarded, turning his amber optics back on Prowl, curious.

"It is the same for me.  My 'partner,' as it were," he uttered the word with the barest hint of derision in his voice.  Jetfire did not appear to pick up on it.  "Can feel my own pain, my joy and sorrow, and I his.  He no doubt possesses some vague awareness as to where I am, and what I've been through.  But that is not enough to bring him here."

"Why not?"  Jetfire sounded affronted at the notion.  "He is being part of you!  Shouldn't he be wanting your happiness?"

Indeed, he should.  But Prowl and his ex-conjunx had not been on good terms for a long time now, and had been all but enemies since the incident with Master Yoketron.  Unfortunately (or maybe not, in this current instance), a spark bond was forever.  He could no less cleanse his spark of that vile presence than he could will himself off this planet.  Of course, Jetfire, with his model relationship with his other half and lack of worldly experience would fail to understand.

"It is a complicated issue, but suffice it to say, he is unlikely to come unless we specifically invite him."

"By pretending to bond ourselves," Jetfire confirmed, still showing no sign of understanding.  Prowl let loose a weary sigh, unsure as to whether it was even possible to get through to this bot.

"Indeed.  Our actions here act as a huge signal flare.  It's inducing spark activity in me, which is reflected in him, and it's not the kind of sensation that can easily be ignored.  Believe me, I know." 

Life on the streets was rough.  Thousands of mechs were trapped together by their mutual poverty - hungry, lonely, damaged, and desperate for a fleeting moment of joy before their bodies inevitably gave out.  Was it any wonder that the sacred activity of spark bonding occurred at a significantly higher rate amongst the destitute?  But of course, no one thought of the long term, when there was no guarantee they'd last the night, and the irreversible nature of spark bonds was a fact that remained poorly broadcasted to those who could not afford education.

Prowl's situation was not an uncommon one – finding a flicker of light in the gritty darkness of the underworld, being drawn in, giving it his life and future, then finding out that a flicker wasn't enough to save him from his despair – watching as its weak light twisted and morphed, until it too was black as the grease that stained the rust-bitten streets.  The two had parted ways, only to find out the hard way that there was no moving on with their lives, no finding shiny new partners to distract them from the misery of living. 

It was Prowl who had remained faithful, and Prowl who had thus been subjected to the burning betrayal in his spark as time and again, as his partner tried and failed to bond with other bots.  It was Prowl who inevitably caved in to the loneliness of the underground, and Prowl who came crawling back, begging forgiveness, willing to follow that spawn of Unicron into the Pit itself, if only he didn't have to be alone anymore.  And look where _that_ had gotten him.

"So," Jetfire said, distracting Prowl from his reminiscence, "He will be getting tired of the feeling of the not-spark bonding, and come all the way here to stopping us?"

"That's the plan," Prowl confirmed,  almost certain that it would even work.  The methods were unconventional, but it was more productive than waiting for a ship to come into the range of Longarm's communication device – provided he was even able to finish it.  At the rate they were going, the lot of them would be dead before that happened.

"You are not liking your bondmate very much, are you?" said Jetfire, with an note of derision. 

Prowl drew a long puff of air from his vents.  "No, I am not.  But this is our best chance of getting out of here.  I think we should try to bond again, if you're up to it."

Jetfire rubbed at his chestplate with his remaining arm, forlorn, thoughtful, hesitant.  At least, that was Prowl's guess.  The bot had always been difficult for him to get a read on, and now that he'd lost his anchors, he was completely unpredictable.  He'd been fairly docile since his arrest, but Prowl still recalled all too well, the violent flames that had filled the room as he'd learned of Jetstorm's fate.  Not much time had passed; it was best to err on the side of caution – to be prepared for anything.

At last, he lowered his arm, as though making his decision, though he did not move his optics to meet Prowl's.  "My spark hurts.  I do not want to be doing this right now.  Maybe later."  It was then that he looked up, golden optics wide and hunted, and with frantic steps, shuffled backwards towards the wall – a crippled plume of flame erupted from his frame, only to die before breaking the surface, no doubt caused by the inhibitor clamp he still wore.  What had caused the sudden change in demeanor?

"Jetfire?"

"I am sorry!  It is not being my choice!  I am prisoner – I am forgetting!" The screen protecting his spark chamber slid up, and the lower panels parted, revealing the dull, flickering spark once more.  "We can be continuing.  It is how we are getting off the planet, yes?"

A pang of guilt overtook Prowl.  Jetfire was not acting of his own volition, but because he believed he had no other choice.  The situation was desperate, true, but he didn't think he could live with himself if he forced Jetfire into something so personal.

"No," he said, voice firm.  "That is all for right now.  We'll come back to this later.  It won't work if you're not feeling well."  A lie, but he had no doubt that Jetfire would pick up on his guilt and press the issue otherwise.  If there was a concrete reason as to why they could not continue, however, he would probably feel more at ease.  Indeed, Jetfire closed his plating with a tiny sigh of relief.

"I understand, Sir.  No more right now."

Prowl's optics narrowed behind his visor.  "I'm not a sir," he said.  He wasn't offended, per say,  but he'd never approved of the notion that any bot deserved to be singled out as above any other, and the corners of society that used such honorific language were ones he held in utter contempt.  It was strange to hear himself addressed in such a manner.

"Ah!  Yes Sir!  I understand!  No more 'sirs!'"

On the other hand, Jetfire had been acting as a glorified slave to the late Sentinel Prime.  His was a habit not so easily broken.  It was another issue that Prowl wouldn't press.

"Right," he drawled.  "Unfortunately, as a prisoner, I cannot let you wander unattended, but if there's anything you need to do right now . . ."  He trailed off, noting the skeptical look Jetfire was fixing him with.  Had that been the wrong thing to say?

It was no matter.  They were both saved from the responsibility of decision-making by Jazz, sauntering lazily into their little grove.  He made it all seem so casual, that it was easy to forget that the chances of him happening upon this out-of-the-way patch of serenity were slim to none.  He knew that Prowl preferred this location, and had sought him out.

"Hey Prowl, Jetfire.  How's it hangin'?"

Prowl offered a shrug, and stepped aside, to better keep an eye on Jazz and Jetfire both.  To his surprise, Jetfire seemed every bit as tense and uncomfortable around Jazz as he had been around the rest of the ship.  With Sentinel and Jetstorm dead, and Blurr the indirect cause, Jazz was the only member of the Elite Guard left with even a little credibility, at least in Jetfire's optics.  Prowl would have thought that he'd feel safe to be around a familiar presence.  He was, evidently, wrong.

"I feel we have made some progress towards our goal here, but it's impossible to know for certain."

"Ah," Jazz said with an clueless smile.  "What was it you were doin' again?"

Before Prowl could brush him off, tell him to mind his own business, that this was personal, Jetfire was answering for him.  "We are to contacting Prowl's bondmate to make him come here and save us."

Jazz's smile vanished in a sparkbeat.  "Bondmate?  Don't tell me you doin' what I think you doin'."

Prowl brushed off his concerns, turning his glaring face on Jazz.  "What we're doing is none of your business."

"That's dangerous stuff you playin' with here.  You sure you're wantin' to be doin' this?"

Prowl stood a little taller in response.  "I know what I'm doing here.  Believe it or not, I do know a thing or two about spark bonds."

"Oh, I believe you," Jazz said, raising his hands in placation.  "I just think this is a risky way to go about gettin' help.  This 'spark mate' of yours – don't want to make an ass of myself, but he's the one who killed Master Yoketron, ain't he?"

"He is," Prowl nodded, inwardly wincing at the memories threatening to spring to life.

"Wait, he what?!"  And that was Jetfire, leading Prowl to wince outwardly as well.  The Elite Guard had been trying to track down the missing master.  Even after everything that had happened, Jetfire was still dedicated to the case.  "Master Yoketron is being dead, and we are calling his murderer _here_?  What are we doing?!  We are _all_ traitors!"

"Take it easy, J.F."  Jetfire glared at the familiarity with which Jazz spoke to him.  "Just 'cause he coming to save us, don't mean we can't still arrest him once we in the clear, ain't that right Prowl?"  He turned his once-again gleaming smile on Prowl, as though requesting his permission.  What a laugh.

"You can do whatever you want to him.  I don't care what happens.  I'd rather he weren't here at all, but what choice do I have?  No one is coming to get us, Jazz.  I have a way to help, and I'm going to take advantage of it, no matter the risk."

He hadn't thought it possible for Jazz's smile to grow more coy, and yet, here it was, thin and secretive as Jazz leaned in close.  "What if I told you it didn't have to be like that?"

Skittish as ever, Prowl threw himself away from the bot who had invaded his space without invitation.  But the words intrigued him, kept him from fleeing too far.  "What do you mean?" he said, once regaining his footing.

"What I mean," Jazz began, "is that I have reason to believe our enemies are working on a space bridge.  Don't know how they've pulled it off, but there you have it.  A clear shot back home."

"A space bridge?" said Jetfire, interjecting himself into the conversation once more.  "Are we to seizing space bridge from that monster?"  Prowl didn't miss the small shudder in his EM field as he brought up the creature that had stolen so much from him.

A nervous cackle escaped from Jazz.  "Well, something like that.  Fact is, I don't know _what_ I want to do about it yet.  Pit, I probably shouldn't even be talking about it."

Prowl did not like the shifty tone in Jazz's voice.  He wasn't the sort to let slip information unless it was intentional.  Jazz was a difficult bot for Prowl to deal with.  On the one hand, he was easy to approach, and his shady past and training under Master Yoketron gave him the ability to understand Prowl on a level that no other bot could.  On the other hand, he was incredibly manipulative.  He knew that Jazz was leading them, but he also knew that he had little choice but to follow.

"Then why are you telling us?"

"Insurance," he said with a shrug.  "If something should happen to me in the next few solar cycles, I want to make sure that _someone_ knows about it."

"Is space bridge why you were exploring all of the caves?" Jetfire asked, some of his earlier tension draining.  Jazz hadn't exactly been forthcoming about his recent fascination with spelunking.  Had Jetfire been spying on him?  It certainly would explain his behavior.

"That's right," Jazz nodded. 

"And you were finding it?"

"I've found _something_ , I can say that much.  But I'd rather keep that on the down low for the moment.  I've got my comm rigged to forward my findings to somebody else, just in case."

"'Just in case,'" Prowl repeated, a touch of scorn entering his voice.  "'If something should happen to me.'  Planning something, Jazz?"

He was answered with further laughter.  "Aside from pokin' sleeping giants with a bigass stick?"  The thought seemed to sober him up, as when he continued, he was no longer laughing.  "I'm trying to secure the spacebridge for us, which means I got to navigate around a tetchy spider and find some way to get Shockwave under control."

"I am suggesting execution," Jetfire offered.  There was a flash of darkness in his optics that made Prowl wary.  There was no mistaking it for what it was.

"While I ain't opposed to getting rid of the threat he poses, the way I understand it, he's been instrumental in the completion of the space bridge.  The spider at least seemed convinced that she needed him to help get it done.  We take him out, we risk losing our ticket home."

"This all sounds like more trouble than it's worth," Prowl muttered, shaking his head.  "I am certain that my method will get us home as well, and there's no risk of getting killed by a murder machine for snooping.  Maybe you should give up on this, and leave it to us?"

"Maybe I should," Jazz shrugged.  "But there are too many variables in your plan, and I'm sure that I can get that spacebridge under our control."

"I wish you luck then," said Prowl, turning his back on the Elite Guardsmech.  "But I cannot approve.  Jetfire and I are returning to base."  He motioned towards his prisoner as he passed by, and Jetfire eagerly followed.

"Sounds like a plan," Jazz called after them.  "Oh, but there is one more thing I need to ask you."

"What is that?" Prowl said, turning mid-stride, only to find that, in those brief seconds, Jazz had closed the distance between them entirely.  He stumbled back, instinctively trying to put some space between them, but Jazz held onto his arm, holding him in place.

"Don't trust Longarm.  Don't let him know that you don't trust him, and don't so much as allude to the fact that you know about the space bridge."  He paused, nodding towards a once-again tense Jetfire.  "This goes for you too, Jetfire."

Prowl did not appreciate being so restrained.  He wrenched his arm from Jazz's grasp and narrowed his optics behind his visor.  "And the reason for this is . . . ?"

"Longarm Prime is Shockwave."

~~~

The trek back to base had been a long one.  In the end, it wasn't difficult to wrap his head around the fact that Longarm was Shockwave, and moreover, that Jazz had come across definitive proof that this was so.  Longarm was already a suspicious bot, and Prowl hadn't trusted him since the day of the trial, when he'd so eagerly leapt on the chance to execute Prowl as Ratchet's killer, immediately after hearing evidence to the contrary.  That was the action of a bot who had something to hide.  By the trial's end, there was little doubt in his mind that Longarm had been the murderer in question, though fully aware that his own word was worth less than garbage, and being barely able to stand on his own two feet at the time, he graciously allowed the mysterious spiders to take the fall for Longarm's crimes.  His already low faith in the Prime, however, had been forever shattered.

The other bots hadn't seen what he was capable of – not first hand.  They hadn't seen Ratchet, writhing on the ground and tearing apart his own chest plating, the shattered glass of his windshield slicing up the metal of his wrists, like they were made of foil, melting and malleable beneath the extreme heat.  They hadn't felt those burning hands, grasping onto their own, nor heard the broken static of words begging for him to cut open airways for ventilation.  And they _hadn't_ felt that spark give up beneath their own hands, hadn't seen the lustrous red and white plating fade away to gray.  It brought forth memories of another time, another bot, another death he'd failed to prevent.  It had been a long while before Prowl, hardened from a life on the streets, witness to many a death in his own time, had been able to regain enough composure to flee.  It still gave him nightmares.

The creator of any virus capable of such horrific things was a monster unworthy of any sympathy.  The brutality of the previous day's events, as well, had the monster's name written all over them.  Mistrusting Longarm was never going to be an issue.

The real trouble would be in pretending that this wasn't the case, especially in regards to Jetfire.  Prowl had long since learned to keep his emotions from ruling his life, but Jetfire, a bot best likened to a living flame, was not so easily controlled.  He obviously didn't care for Longarm either, but having a face to link to the loss of his brother, his other half, his _everything_ – it was a recipe for the sort of situation that Jazz claimed he was trying to avoid.  When it came down to it, Prowl was glad that Jetfire still wore the inhibitor clamp, for without it, it was quite likely that the bot would have taken off in a burst of fire and done something irredeemably stupid.  As it was, Prowl had needed to pull out every meditation trick in his book to get the bot to control his temper.               

Once back, they found the camp strangely empty.  When they'd left, Bumblebee had been sitting on top of Bulkhead's alt mode next to the ship, the two of them idly chattering away, and Optimus had been fiddling with a datapad by the front door, stopping only to ask where they were going, and requesting status updates on the cycle.  Now, however, all three had cleared out.  Had they gone inside? 

He opened the door to the ship and peered in, hoping to find anyone other than the two bots who currently occupied the room.  Longarm was seated at the computer, fiddling away with his communicator, while Blurr dozed on the floor at his feet, head resting against the treaded legs of Longarm's lap.  Evidently, the two had made up in his absence.   He would have thought the scene would  cute with a less sinister couple.  As it was, he was left feeling nauseated.  He could only hope that his meditation tricks worked, and that Jetfire behind him, would be able to prevent his lust for revenge to ruin everything.

At the sound of the door sliding open, Longarm looked up from his work.

"Ah, Prowl.  Welcome back."

Prowl didn't want to step in the room, knew he'd be trapped with the enemy if he did so, but lingering awkwardly in the door would only be suspicious.  Pulling his EM field in tight, he stepped into the room, and Jetfire followed his lead.  Mercifully, the bot left the door open behind him.

"Ah, Longarm Prime.  Hello."  Jetfire's words were cold, but surprisingly civil all things considered.  It wasn't strange behavior considering their interactions the previous night.  _Good job._

"Where did everyone go?"  Prowl added, feeling that the question was neutral enough.

Longarm offered a shrug.  "As best I can tell, Bumblebee and Bulkhead ran off looking for Jazz, and subsequently, Optimus ran off in search of _them_.  Come to think of it, I may head out in a moment as well."

Well, wasn't that suspicious?  Prowl's face remained passive, as he said, "What for?"

The fake smile plastered to Longarm's face was unsettling enough, but somehow, knowing what Prowl knew now, it was easy to imagine that the bulb located at the center of his forehead was some kind of insidious optic, scrutinizing his words for any hint of certain forbidden knowledge. 

"I was up all night working on this communicator.  A few more tweaks, and we might have something useable on our hands.  But I need to run out for more supplies.  I've been storing a few things off-site, to clear up some room in my subspace.  Just a quick hop out should do it."

"Alone?" Prowl couldn't help but ask, eyeing Blurr nervously.  In some ways, he trusted that bot less than Longarm himself.  It was common knowledge by this point that Longarm was not a good guy, but everyone seemed to have mixed feelings about Blurr.  He was dangerously competent, dangerously loyal, and clearly losing his mind.   It was impossible to gauge how much he knew, and whose side he'd fall one should push come to shove, and that made Prowl less than keen to be left alone with the guy.

Longarm glanced down at his companion, a look of fondness passing over his face.  To Prowl's trained optic, it appeared to be sincere.  Another dangerous combination.  Yesterday had clearly proven that to mess with Blurr was to mess with Shockwave, with catastrophic results.  All the more reason to be wary of the speedy little bastard.  "I'm afraid so," he said.  "I fear Blurr's quite worn himself out already.  He shouldn't be running about at all – his frame was in no condition to handle the duress he put it through this morning.  Poor little dear passed out not long after he got back in."

"Oh," was all Prowl managed to say.  The display was making him feel a little unwell.  "Well, if you're worried about Blurr, I can keep an optic on him while you're out.  It's the least I can do."

Longarm turned that unsettling smile right back on Prowl.  "That would be wonderful, thank you."  Gently as he could manage, he shifted out from beneath Blurr.  Somehow, the bot managed to remain asleep, even as his pillow freed itself, laying his helm to rest instead on the firm chair.  Once Blurr was properly situated, Longarm made his way towards the door, footsteps light, so as not to wake the sleeping mech.  "I trust you will do a good job.  I shall return as quickly as I can."

He stepped out the door with no further fuss, but Prowl did not think he imagined the unsaid threat in his voice.  He only hoped that this ended well.

"Good job," he said to Jetfire, before turning his back on the door.

"Good . . . job?" Jetfire repeated, confused.  "What did I do?"

Prowl had meant to commend the bot for holding in his temper, but the words died on his tongue.  Sitting on the floor, fully awake, with unnaturally bright optics fixed dead on his own, was Blurr. The bot was fast, true, but it was unlikely that he had gone from asleep to this alert so quickly.  Had he been faking?

"Blurr," he acknowledged, trying to maintain his cool.  That was _not_ the face of a bot looking for friendly conversation and idle chatter, rather, his face left the impression of a bot on a mission – grave, intense, and maybe even a little unhinged.  Prowl inched backwards, already on the defensive.  Not that it mattered.  He'd seen Blurr move.  If the bot decided to kill him, there would be little Prowl could do to fight back.  "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," he said, leaping to his feet faster than Prowl's optics could follow.  He didn't take off running again, but did begin pacing, back and forth, back and forth, overflowing with a nervous energy that spread all the way to his EM field.  "I'm fine!  I'm great!  I could run the perimeter of the island time and again and again and again and again!"

"Are you sure?" Prowl hazarded.  "Longarm said that you were worn out.  But I suppose he was mistaken?"

Blurr barely acknowledged Prowl as he continued his pacing.  "Hmm?  Yes, yes he did say that, I suppose, but he's wrong.  I needed him to leave, but then the two of you showed up and now everything's just a mess!"

"Why is that?"

"Because he's up to something, and I have to stop him before he ruins _everything_."

Did this mean that Blurr did, in fact, know about Shockwave, and intended to stop him?  Prowl could only hope.

"Do you mean the space bridge?"  Prowl wanted to clamp a hand over Jetfire's mouth, but it was too late; the words had been  uttered.  Before either bot had time to react, Blurr had sent Jetfire stumbling into a wall with a flying kick, hard enough to disorient the jet, before settling just out of arm's reach, EM field spread wide and flickering madly.  It had indeed been too much to hope.  Whatever Blurr had planned, it was probably not in the best interest of _anyone_ , least of all himself.  That was _not_ a field that implied clear-headed, rational decisions.

"What do you know about the space bridge?" he snapped, frame held perfectly still, even as his energy continued to cascade around the small room.  Jetfire was too surprised to provide a prompt answer, and fearing what would happen to the bot if he maintained his silence, Prowl took it upon himself to speak instead.

"We only know what Jazz told us," he said, trying not to wince as Blurr's attention snapped to him, burying him beneath the same intensity, though notably, he'd positioned himself so that his optics never left Jetfire.  Prowl didn't blame him after yesterday.

"And what was it that Jazz told you?"

"Not much.  He told us he knew that our enemies were building one, and that was it.  Why, what do _you_ know?"  Continuing to play it cool was the only option he had.  If Blurr didn't think he had anything to fear from them, perhaps he'd cool off.

Indeed, Blurr did back down once the question had been turned on him, if only a little.  The fear and rage left his face, leaving him to instead regard Prowl with a suspicious frown.  "I'm in the same boat.  Jazz told me the exact same thing, but he also said that I was the only one he trusted with the knowledge.  Evidently he was lying."  And just like that, his wild EM field ceased in its uncontrolled display, instead pulling itself in tight. The sudden composure was almost more unnerving than the previous fury.

"And you think _Longarm_ has something to do with it?" Prowl hazarded.

The look Blurr shot him promised murder, but he somehow managed to contain himself.  "No.  I think Longarm's found out about it and is going to take it upon himself to seize control of it like an idiot."  It was an interesting notion, one that Prowl could see Blurr believing, at least.  Either that, or he was a good liar.  Blurr continued.  "Anyway, I have to go stop him before he gets himself killed.  I'm sorry for attacking you earlier," he nodded to Jetfire, who granted him a poisonous glare in return.  Blurr didn't seem to care.  "I'm just a bit on edge about all of this.  Anyway, if he gets back before me, please don't tell him what I'm doing."

Prowl didn't like this situation at all.  _Somebody_ was going to die; he could feel it, though it was impossible to say just who.  "Are you sure you don't want any help?"

Blurr shook his head, slowly, controlled.  "I am.  No offense or anything, but the two of you would only slow me down and get in the way.  Now, if you don't mind, I've already wasted enough time."  He was out the door before Prowl had time enough to even offer a 'goodbye.'

"What do you make of that?" he asked, more to the air than to Jetfire, but that didn't stop the jet from responding.

"I am not trusting Blurr."

"I agree," Prowl said with a nod.  "But I don't suppose we have any hope of catching him right now."  He deflated, letting the tense encounter drain from his system.  The sun was still high in the afternoon sky.  It was too early to be dealing with their impending doom.  He moved over to the wall opposite the recharge slab, and slid to the floor, preparing for some meditation.  Right now, he needed to clear his mind.  The best course of  action would come to him in time.  This would have been better done outside, but he didn't feel comfortable leaving the base unguarded, and in all honesty, it was probably the safer place to be at the moment.  Predictably, Jetfire followed his path, ready to put into  practice the techniques that Prowl had taught him earlier.

A cycle passed in quiet serenity, perhaps a little more.  At some point, Jetfire had drifted off into recharge – a common mistake amongst beginners.  In the meantime, Prowl had received no messages on his comm, and not a single bot had stopped by camp.  It should have made him worry, but he was beyond such things at the moment.  The universe would work itself out; there wasn't anything more he could do right now, and the silence called to him like an old friend.

It was the sound of static that pulled him back to the real world.  His optics slid open as he sought out the source.  It was coming from the computer table.  That was odd. 

He slid to his feet in a graceful motion, stirring Jetfire from his own slumber.

"Prowl?  What is?"

The sound was pouring out of Longarm's supposedly incomplete communicator.  His spark leapt in his chest.  Someone was trying to contact them! 

He was hesitant to touch the thing.  It was made by their enemy; surely it was some kind of a trap.  But the potential that their ticket home, their means of avoiding the looming bloodbath, had finally arrived was enough to assuage his fears.  With trembling hands, he hit the crude 'receive call' switch on the device.

"Hello?  This is the Death's Head hailing the surface.  Anyone down there?  'Cause I sure would hate to have wasted my time on some wild goose chase."

Prowl could scarcely believe his audials.  It had surely been no more than a lunar cycle since he'd last heard that voice, maybe two, but it felt like vorns.  That deep, gruff sound, unruffled even despite the complaint in his words, was enough to undo the previous cycle of peaceful meditation through sheer excitement alone.  For once in his wretched life, something had gone right!  His plan had worked.

"Lockdown . . ."

On the other end of the connection, Lockdown's voice took on a pleased quality.  "Prowl?  Is that you?  I take it you want to see me, which is good, because I want to see you too."

There was much that Prowl wanted to say.  How had Lockdown been able to respond so quickly?  How had he known about the quantum engines in the first place?  Was their deal still valid?  Were the protoforms safe?  But all his processor would allow him, was a startled "What?"

"Yeah.  I'm sure we'll have plenty to talk about once I come down there, but I was hoping you could answer for me one small question first:  Where in the Pit have you been for the last seven stellar cycles?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost there! (I say, knowing fully well that I've just planned 5 chapters out, and that's not even the end of it). Also, if you happen to spot me referring to either Jazz or Prowl as the other's name, do let me know. I am particularly bad with these two, for some reason.


	34. Denial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shockwave feels that his alliance with Blackarachnia has become more trouble than its worth. Unfortunately, she seems to feel the same.

Shockwave was displeased.  All around him, the world was spiraling out of control, and for all his calm, for all his rationality, he was being swept up right along with it.  Despite his best efforts, he'd found himself backed into a corner, forced to the brink of desperation by a pack of bots who, by all rights, should be dead by his claw. 

_How incredibly backwards._

Jazz knew about the space bridge, and if he knew that much, then it was only a matter of time before he learned the rest – learned of Shockwave's true identity.  And Jazz was no fool.  If he found out, there was no way the secret would die with him.  If Jazz knew, then Optimus would know, and Prowl would know, and he would have to kill every other Autobot on the island if he was to have any hope of returning to his infiltration mission. 

But he couldn't kill Jazz, nor the others.  He'd seen Blurr's earlier reaction to the news that Jazz had been attacked, as he had seen his vehement defense of Jetfire before.  The death of any more of his allies would utterly _destroy_ Blurr, and so, against his better judgment, Shockwave would oblige; He would still his claws.  For now. 

_The things I do for you._

Of course, Shockwave could hardly sit around and do _nothing_ to right the wrongs of his world.  His love for Blurr barred him from hurting the other Autobots for the moment, but he'd never said anything about _Decepticons,_ and there was a certain femme he desperately needed to pay a visit – a femme who had broken the rules time and again, who had served her purpose, and who was quickly becoming a liability.  If he couldn't kill Jazz, then he'd have to settle for dealing with the other thorn in his side, for better or worse.

And so, he'd left the Autobot base with one goal in mind.  Blackarachnia had done well to lay down the foundation for the space bridge, and her death would slow down its completion, but she was far too volatile an ally to keep around.  It was through her incompetence that Jazz had learned his secret, and through her incompetence that he had retained his memory of the encounter.  But more than alerting his most lethal of enemies to his plans, she had committed one more sin, even graver - she had upset Blurr.  Picking on Optimus and Sentinel, he could forgive, playing around with the loose cannon that was Jazz, a little less so, but with Blurr, though her actions were indirect, their results were no less worthy of retribution.  If there was to be a frown on those delicate lips, terror in those piercing optics, a fierce pounding in that perfect spark, then it would be put there by Shockwave, and no one else.

Blackarachnia needed to die.

But even as he marched onward towards the cave, he was plagued by doubt.  He knew that killing his partner would do little to solve his current predicament, and in some ways be more trouble than it was worth.  He knew that he was acting in desperation, in one pathetic bid to get some control over his mess of a life.  He knew that sooner or later, he'd have to kill the others as well, or risk never returning to Cybertron, risk disappointing his one true master.  But logic had left him long ago, on that night when he failed to kill the biggest threat to his plans.

_Focus, Shockwave._

He was in denial.  _He_ was in _denial!_ When was the last time _that_ had happened?  Shockwave was ancient and wise and not given to ignoring truths that placed themselves in his very path.  What was he coming to?  And what would Lord Megatron think if he saw him now?

He pushed the thought aside, knowing all too well what he would find.  It was better to instead focus on the task at hand.  He'd reached the cave.  This was his last chance to back out of doing something irreparably stupid. 

He didn't need to kill the spider.  They could just . . . talk.  At the very least, there were a few issues that needed to be addressed. 

He'd resist the urge to murder and maim for now – he was supposed to be a bot driven by logic and reason, he could control himself for a little longer at least.  He would pay Blackarachnia a visit, talk, see what she had to say for herself, and go from there.  That was the rational thing to do. 

_At last, a logical solution._

With his mind made up, Shockwave stepped into the cave, shed his disguise, and followed the familiar path to the spacebridge room.

Blackarachnia was waiting for him, her back to the spacebridge, hands on the work desk, all four optics narrowed in a tight glare.  Waspinator, meanwhile, was dozing peacefully in the corner in full beast mode, completely unaware of Shockwave's presence.

"Took you long enough," she sneered her usual greeting, but without any of the coy humor.  Blackarachnia was angry.  Jazz had informed Blurr of his run-in with the venomous spiderbot.  If that was the case, then she may very well have been aware of Shockwave's own transgressions.  Jazz really was going out of his way to be a thorn in his side.

"It has only been a day since I last paid visit.  Though I'm afraid you were out at the time," he noted, minimizing the accusation in his voice.  If Blackarachnia wanted to elaborate about yesterday, then she'd bring it up herself.  In the meantime, Shockwave moved to the space bridge, antennae tasting the light hum of energy that permeated the surrounding air.  "Though I see you have made some good progress in that time.  We may very well be ahead of schedule."

"Provided more of your new friends don't follow you back here and hijack our hard-won labor of love." 

Wait . . .

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me," she snapped, forcefully enough that Waspinator stirred in his sleep.

"Yes," Shockwave agreed, momentarily distracted by the slight, sudden movement.  "But I fail to see how this is my fault.  Tell me, what was it you were doing yesterday while you were out?  Playing with Optimus, perhaps?"

She actually had the gall to laugh at that.

"Did I say something amusing?  I don't believe so."

"You daft _idiot_!" she sneered between cackles.  "You do realize what happened yesterday, don't you?  Aside from you killing yourself _two_ Autobots immediately after promising me you wouldn't, 'cause I can't imagine you missed something like that."

"While I acknowledge that my actions were ill-advised, it should be noted that the situation had become desperate enough that I was left with no choice."

"Oh really?  What, did they find out your true identity?  Threaten your life?  Your secret?  The Decepticon cause?" 

Shockwave did not reply.

"No?  Then what ever could they have done?  _Please_ don't tell me this is because of that stupid little speedster of yours, because I swear to Primus  I'll –"

"You'll what?" Shockwave interrupted, turning away from the space bridge to loom over the agitated spider.  As per usual, she remained unintimidated.  Behind him, the soft buzz of Waspinator's snoring ceased.

"Oh, don't pull _that_ now.  You're in no position to make threats, Shockwave, because it was _you_ that got us discovered!"

"I?" he scoffed.  "Let's not pass the blame, shall we?"

"Ohhh no," she laughed again, throwing back her head, upper legs dancing with the motion.  "I wasn't exaggerating when I said that your Autobot friend's followed you back here.   Your nosy friend with the sleek white paintjob?  Yeah, he paid us a visit - _specifically_ said that he'd followed your trail!  I was going to kill him, but he had _quite_ the silver tongue – made some big promises about how he'd get the Autobots off our back, among other things.  And as I don't see any of them here _now_ , excluding yourself of course, I'd say he's doing a pretty great job so far."

While it explained much, the news was not something Shockwave cared to hear at the moment.  Voice detached as ever, he offered a clinical, "Is that so?"

"Oh, it's so," Blackarachnia insisted.  "Looks like _someone_ was in such a hurry to save that little thorn in the side of the Decepticon cause, that he forgot to take simple precautions to make sure he wasn't followed back."

Shockwave saw red.  It was bad enough that she spoke in such a way about his beloved, but the fact that her words held a ring of truth about them made the alien rage within him boil even hotter.  He lunged forward with a swipe of his claws, and bellowed.

"Enough!"

Blackarachnia easily dodged the assault, and placed herself just out of arm's reach, all of her previous mirth drained from her face.  "Is something wrong, Shockwave?"

"Very much is wrong," Shockwave said, turning away from the spider and back to the space bridge.  He needed to get a hold on his temper.  This was madness.  He continued speaking, a part of him hoping that he could talk sense into himself if he kept at it long enough.

"You seem to think that I do not realize what is going on here, what is going on with me, and with Blurr.  You would be wrong.  I am all-too aware of what he's done to me, how he's changed me, my behavior, my responses.  It is _I_ who knows better than anyone just how detrimental he is to everything we are trying to accomplish here, and I who knows just how very doomed the two of us are.  I despise this feeling, would delete it if I could, but I know full well that were it to come to such, that it would be also be _I_ fighting to retain that tiny, inconsequential Autobot's place within my spark.

"Blurr is here to stay, and as terrible as that is, it will not be changing any time soon.  I suggest you silence all ill you have to say of him, lest I remove your vocaliser myself."

That wicked grin was back on her face, distorting her features, filling Shockwave with a dangerous rage. 

"Primus!  You've really got it bad, don't you?  The fact that you can see it, and _still_ refuse to ditch that worthless hunk of metal makes it all the worse!  I wonder, Shockwave, what Lord Megatron would say, if he could see you now?"

She was mocking him, trying to goad him – to what end, he didn't know.  And he didn't care.  She'd crossed a line.  Shockwave knew _exactly_ what Megatron would say, and it only added fuel to the fire of his own torn emotions – damn the things!  It wasn't supposed to be like this!  He was Shockwave, Megatron's most trusted lieutenant!  Not some temperamental protoform!  He felt sick, helpless, and frustrated beyond measure.  As he was now, even if the order was given by Megatron himself, Shockwave wasn't certain he could kill Blurr, and _that_ made things all the worse. 

"You're a disgrace, Shockwave!  For one who professes so strongly his love for our lord, you sure are quick to betray his trust!  And for what?!"

He wanted her to shut up.  He wanted to tear the smile from her smug face.  He wanted to banish these awful _emotions_ to the Pit and be done with them!

"A pretty face? Is that it?  What's even so great about this kid?  Or maybe," her grin grew wider, sadistic, "you get off on twisting the little dear's grasp on sanity.  On just how much can you damage him and still have him crawling back to your side?  Am I right?  He makes you feel strong in a way that Megatron never could –"

She leapt backwards as those claws came flying at her again, but she was not fast enough.  He caught her by the bulbous, spider-like abdomen, its organic composition tearing easily as she flew by, splattering his claws with energon, and sending an angry shriek into the air.  She turned to face him, a look of fury in her optics, but the smile wasn't gone.

"What?  Can't take the truth?"

He'd been foolish.  Again, these wretched _emotions_ had taken over, forced his hand.  Killing Blackarachnia would solve none of his problems.  And yet, it sounded so very appealing.

"What is your aim, Blackarachnia.  You're not so stupid as to say these things unless you wanted to goad me into rash action."

She stood tall and folded her arms over her chest.  "Perhaps I'm beginning to rethink our alliance.  Perhaps I don't want a partner who leads his Autobot pals to our doorstep because he can't keep his emotions in check.  Perhaps I'm willing to spend a bit more time on this planet fiddling with my space bridge if it means I don't have to deal with your little circus freaks every other day."

"Funny," Shockwave growled.  "I was thinking the same thing." 

If she wanted him dead, then all bets were off.  He lunged again, but Blackarachnia was ready for him.  She leapt over his slashing claws and skittered up his arm to dig those deadly spider limbs into the soft protoform of his neck.  Panic seized him immediately; Shockwave had seen firsthand the damage she could wreak with those things, and knew that, whatever she had done, it was unlikely to end well for him.  She'd known he'd lunged at her, move in for a close quarters strike – exactly where she'd wanted him.  Damn it all!

Blackarachnia was quick to leap out of range of his claws, but Shockwave followed with renewed determination, limbs snaking their way around the cavern until they caught up, and the spider, slowed from her injuries, soon found herself with nowhere else to run; she was trapped in his claws.  Feeling pleased with himself, Shockwave pulled her in close, relishing in the way she struggled in his grasp.

"What have you done to me?" he said, voice cold and even, despite his fear.

When she answered with a cocky sneer, he made to squeeze her slight form, to grind her techno-organic body to dust beneath his might.  But he could not.  His claws had seized up, refused to move for him, which sent another burst of hot panic through his circuits.

"Something wrong, Shockwave?"

He was done being cool and collected.  "What have you done to me?" he snarled this time, whirling around and slamming her into a cave wall with all of his might.  To his great pleasure, she cried out at the action.  He whirled again, this time aiming for one of the tables, filled with various odds and ends that were sure to shatter in the scuffle.  In front of him, he could see the cold skeleton of the space bridge, watching the battle unfold.

"No!" she shrieked, an action that would have been music to his ears had it actually been directed at him.  Unfortunately, the burning energy at his back, that hit him with enough force to slacken his grip on Blackarachnia and send him flying over the table, and into the space bridge told him exactly what it was that her cry was protesting.

Miraculously, the structure of the space bridge held up under the heavy blow, dented, but not demolished.  However, the residual energy of the attack had caused the pleasant hum of the machine to take on an eerie, sickening quality, which vibrated painfully against Shockwave's sensitive antennae.  That would need to be fixed before operation could commence – provided he lived long enough to do so. 

Heat was overtaking his body, erupting forth from his spark, hot enough to fuse the circuits within his claws, hot enough to melt protoform and plating alike, and suddenly, he felt he knew _exactly_ what Blackarachnia had done to him.  He could fix it; he'd devised this virus himself; he had the cure.  But he could do nothing while the threat still lingered.  Bleary-eyed, he looked up, to where Blackarachnia and Waspinator stood across the way, arguing.  He transformed his cannon, taking care to hide it behind his frame as he built up the charge he needed to fire.

"You idiot!" Blackarachnia screamed.  "Do you realize what you've done?!"

"Wazzpinator save Spider Lady?  Why Spider Lady angry at Wazzpinator?"

"I was doing fine on my own!" Perhaps, but Shockwave could see even from his own position, the way she hunched over, the tremble to her legs, the strain in her voice.  He could take satisfaction in knowing that he'd done _some_ damage.

"But _you_!  You went and blew Shockwave there into the _space bridge_!  That's our ticket off this planet you maggot!!"

"Wazzpinator not maggot."

"I swear to Primus, if you've caused any lasting damage to that machine, I will not hesitate to deactivate you, you worthless failure of an experiment!  I never should have saved your miserable spark!"

The hum of the cannon sprang to life, and Blackarachnia froze; she knew exactly what that sound meant.  Waspinator, however, did not.

"Spider Lady?"

Blackarachnia was out of the room and down the hallway before Shockwave's cannon had the chance to erupt, but clueless Waspinator was not so lucky.  He turned to face Shockwave, to see what had his partner so frightened.  What he got was a face-full of cannon fire.

The room filled with high-pitched shrieks, as the smell of burning flesh and melting metal burst forth to join them, in a delightful sensory bouquet.  Were he not in such an urgent state, Shockwave would have found the stimuli to be quite enjoyable.  As it was, he was fighting to remain upright.

Worse yet, either Waspinator was made of some tough metal, or his techno-organic nature granted him some measure of defense against energy weapons.  The thick head of his alt-mode had taken most of the blast, and had burnt away, leaving the scorched metal of his spark chamber to shine through, albeit intact.  One of his vestigial arms had been reduced to nothing, but, while charred and brittle, his other limbs remained virtually unscathed. 

Waspinator looked down to his chest, the awareness of what had happened washing over him, and let out another panicked shriek, before taking flight and following Blackarachnia from the cave, his damaged wings carrying him into walls like an overcharged drunkard.

Shockwave didn't allow himself to move until the last buzz of those wings disappeared from his senses.  From there, he reverted his cannon arm and allowed himself to collapse forward, stumbling into the table that he'd meant to kill Blackarachnia on.

He allowed all of his vents to open before they too, were melted shut, expelling steamy air from within.  His spark chamber too, he made haste to open, but that was all he was able to manage before his legs gave out.  He collapsed to the floor, burning hotter and hotter, and wishing he'd never made this stupid virus.

He had a vaccine stored in his subspace, which he found that he could no longer access, but surely there was another buried somewhere within the lab.  Blackarachnia wouldn't have dared use a virus she couldn't cure.  Using the table as support, he forced himself up, stared blankly at the cylinders and cubes, their labels unreadable to his blurring optic.  Worse yet, he was rapidly losing control of his own mind.  He wouldn't have long to rectify what Blackarachnia had done.

What Blackarachnia had done . . . What _had_ Blackarachnia done?  Given him the virus of course, the same he'd given Ratchet all those cycles ago, but to what end?  The fact that she had it prepared in her stingers implied that some preparation had gone into the assault.  She'd wanted him dead, before he'd even set foot in the room.  Their fragile alliance had fallen apart, and for what?

It was all for Blurr, who in the end, was not worth this.  He was small and weak and well on his way to losing his mind, perhaps more so than any other bot on the island.  Trauma after trauma, exacerbated by severe damage to his spark had left him a shallow mockery of his former self, had successfully stripped away nearly all of what Shockwave had found so appealing about the little mech in the first place.  At this point, his mission was an abject failure, and all he'd have to present Megatron for his vorns of hard work, was one broken Autobot, too unstable to find any use amongst the Decepticon ranks.

_This is the virus talking,_ he tried to tell himself.  _Ignore it and focus on finding the cure._

But this was not the virus, it was the truth.  Blackarachnia had seen it, and he had as well, as much as he tried to ignore it.  He'd been compromised by Blurr, had jeopardized his mission time and again for Blurr, and risked losing everything for Blurr.  He needed to get rid of Blurr – once the little pest was safely offlined, he could gather up the few  remaining pieces of his dignity, and get on with his life – none of this showing mercy to Autobots or blowing his cover like a love-torn fool.  He had to distance himself from Blurr – kill him, wipe his existence from his memory, and put all of his focus into repairing the space bridge and getting home.

_He had to stay alive_.  He fumbled, dropping the vial he held in his claws, and hoping that it hadn't been something important.  _Where is it, where is it?!_ His movements grew frantic, as he grasped and groped, half blind, in a desperate search for the vaccine.  Every container was held close to his head, allowing him to taste their make-up on the air with his antennae, one of the only sensory mechanisms in his frame that was still working with any consistency.

He could think about Blurr and Blackarachnia and Megatron and space bridges later, once he was in control of his processor.  All that mattered right now was finding the right vial, finding the right vial, finding the right . . .

A familiar taste wafted through his sensors.   This!  This was what he needed!  With shaking claws, he groped along the table, quickly finding an injector gun to load it into.  It was no easy feat, state that he was in, but somehow he managed, turning the device on his bared spark, and pulling the trigger.

He'd succeeded, that much was certain from the way that the molten air surrounding his spark chamber returned to a more tolerable temperature, but whether or not he'd acted soon enough to prevent any lasting damage was impossible to say.  His head still felt heavy, his thoughts racing and paranoid.  His body was overheated, most of the fuel in his tanks had evaporated in the virus's assault on his system, and left him feeling weaker than he had since his war days.  With no more strength to hold himself up, he collapsed the remaining distance to the floor.

This was a terrible place for a nap – Blackarachnia or Waspinator could return at any moment, or worse yet, Jazz could decide to pop his head in, or Optimus, or even Blurr.  Transforming into Longarm right now was out of the question, but he needed to get out of here, needed to find somewhere safe to rest.  His body protested. 

_Just a few kliks, here on the floor.  Then I'll go._

With that thought hanging in his mind, he shuttered his optic, shutting out the world that was spinning wildly around him, granting himself a moment of blissful, tranquil darkness.

_Just a few kliks._


	35. Reminisce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blackarachnia has a few regrets in regards to her current predicament.

In retrospect, trying to kill Shockwave had been a bad idea, but damned if it hadn't felt so, so satisfying, seeing him at last get his just desserts for every hitch he'd thrown into their plan this past lunar cycle.  Blackarachnia had been tolerant of the first murder, and had held her thirst for justice in check even after he'd brutally murdered Sentinel Prime.  It wasn't until that smug little Autobot strode into her cave like he owned the place, having followed Shockwave's trail home, that she began to seriously rethink the benefits of having the idiot around.

Had it been a less pragmatic Autobot to discover their hideout, then their space bridge easily could have gone up in flames, and she very much doubted she'd be able to pull another one out of her aft – the first had been miraculous enough.  Something had to be done about Shockwave, that much was clear.

Still, she was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.  Provided he arrived at the cave in a timely manner, and engaged her with civility and a rational mind; then there would be no need to waste such genius.  Unfortunately, Shockwave had failed the test, and she'd been forced to snuff his spark.

Her only regret was that she had chosen to fight him head on.  True, it was nearly impossible to catch the mech with his guard down, but even she could admit that she'd grossly underestimated the speed at which that hulking brute could move, not to mention the infinite reach of those deadly claws.  It had not been one of her finer moments.

_System Report – Right servo: functioning at 60% capacity._

_System Report – Right leg: functioning at 40% capacity._

_System Report – Cooling fan – upper-left torso: offline._

_System Report – Perforation in arachnial torso plating;  energon leakage at 15%.  Suggest immediate repairs._

And even better, she'd left her med kit on standby in the lab, just in case she happened to mess up with the virus.  And that was ignoring the fact that the location of the injury was not exactly easy for her to reach.  She'd need assistance in getting patched up, which was most unfortunate given that she'd just cut ties with her only allies on the island.  Hindsight was 20/20, after all.

She had enough emergency energon in her subspace to replenish her own stores, should she need to, but the fact of the matter was that Blackarachnia had found herself in a most precarious situation.  Perhaps she could still convince Waspinator back to her side.  He was a simpleton; it wouldn't be difficult.

Speaking of which . . .

A frenzied, uneven buzzing echoing down the cavern walls was all the warning she got before Waspinator sped into view, only to disappear into the woods without sparing her so much as a glance.  _Scrap._

Judging by the state of Waspinator's transformation kibble, it was easy to assume that he had taken a direct hit from Shockwave's cannon.  He may have been an incompetent idiot who had abandoned her when she most needed him, but Blackarachnia was at the very least, glad for Waspinator's bulk, which had unwittingly shielded her from the assault; her thinner plating would not have fared half so well.  Well _there_ was another of her regrets.

She'd been so enamored by the irony of killing Shockwave with his own virus, that she hadn't bothered thinking about the consequences of such an action.  Ignoring the fact that he would be quick to realize what was happening, and well-aware of what to look for in a vaccine, she'd come to realize, for instance, that if, by some miracle, Shockwave was able to transform his weapon arm, then the excess heat overwhelming his body could easily be diverted into charge for his cannon, allowing for more frequency firing, and more _powerful_   hits with every blast.  What a notion!  And if Shockwave possessed enough clarity of mind to have figured this out as well . . .

Yeah, there was _no_ way she was going back into that cave until she was certain that her new biggest enemy was one hundred percent out of commission.  In the meantime, without access to a medical kit, and with the spider-like abdomen at her back leaking energon with no end in sight, she would have to settle for another solution, find a different ally – one with a tender spark, a mech who never could resist the notion of helping the helpless.

What she needed was to pay a call to her dear friend, Optimus Prime.

~~~

Finding Optimus was easy, as usual.  Upon learning of the existence of her old academy buddies on the island, she'd been overcome with the desire to keep an optic on them.  All it had taken was a tracer, planted on the back of the neck at their first encounter; her victims remained none the wiser.  Within minutes, she had caught up with the Prime, who was marching briskly through the brush, as though in search of someone, which was probably exactly what he was doing.

Her injuries kept her slow, weak, and her stingers were still loaded with remnants of Shockwave's Heat Death virus, rather than her own memory virus, and as she had no intention of killing Optimus, her best weapon was off the table.  Furthermore, her means of creating the theatrics that she so loved to hide behind – toxic fogs, and undetectable cyberwebs were all back at the lab, and far from her subspace.  She would be facing him, alone and completely vulnerable, the only weapon at her disposal, her silver tongue.  She hoped it wouldn't let her down this time.

Putting on the most piteous expression she could muster, she allowed herself to collapse to the ground, with a pathetic whimper of "Please, help me."

Optimus whirled around at once, with such frantic movements, that Blackarachnia almost had to laugh.  She covered it with a cough. 

"Please," she said again.  Optimus, however, did not respond with the predicted empathy.

"You!" he spat, axe suddenly in hand, prepared to defend himself.  Blackarachnia found herself withdrawing, in surprise.  He was poised to strike – bad call.

"You know me?" she asked, still trying to keep up the image of weakness.  She'd erased his memories last time!  The Autobots knew there were some kind of vaguely-defined 'spiders' on the island, but the way Optimus spoke to her made it sound like he'd retained more than he should have.

"I don't," he said, "but I know of you, and I know what you've done.  What do you want from me _this_ time?  And make it quick, because I'm in a hurry."  This did not look like a mech to be reasoned with, but Blackarachnia wasn't prepared to give up yet.

"I told you," she squeaked, "I want your help.  I'm injured, see?"  She shifted, allowing him full view of the still-bleeding gash on her spider-like abdomen.  One major downside to being techno-organic, aside from the mistrust and exile, was the ridiculously slow rate at which her self-repairs kicked in.  There was a time she would have been halfway back to full health by now.

Optimus's face softened, and for half a second it looked like he might actually help her.  He quickly dismissed the notion.  "I'm sorry to see that, but unfortunately, you and I are enemies – you have attacked me and mine countless times.  I have no reason to help you, and as I said, I'm in a bit of a hurry."  He turned to leave.  This situation was getting desperate.  It was time for drastic measures.

"Wait!" she cried out.  Much to her joy, he obliged.  When she spoke next, she took care to pepper her words with hitches and static, as though she was half a step away from sobbing.  "I never killed anyone, you have to believe me!  That was Shockwave who killed your medic friend, and Shockwave who killed Sentinel, and Shockwave who killed everyone else."  That was, of course, the truth.  She continued.

"Besides, it's true that I attacked you, but who do you think gave the command?  Do you know anything about Shockwave?  He's a monster!  Huge, ancient, powerful!  Look at me?  I'm _miniscule_ for a Decepticon!  Do you really think I've been in any position to disobey him?"  And that was some misdirection mixed in with outright lies.

"But when he killed Sentinel, that was when I'd had enough.  I tried to back out, tried to tell him that I was done with him, and he attacked me!  I barely got out with my life!"  She allowed a single drop of optical lubricant to trickle down her cheek.  She should've been an actress.

But it was clear that Optimus did not appreciate true talent.  He was watching her, axe lowered, but face still set in a deep frown.

"You don't believe me?" she whimpered.

He remained unmoved by her performance.  Instead, he said, "How do you know Sentinel?"

That was, perhaps, the last question she'd expected to come out of his mouth. 

"I'm sorry, what?"

Serious as ever, he elaborated.  "You said that his death ended your relationship with Shockwave.  He must have been important to you, if that's the case.  And I can't help but remember him telling me of his own run-in with you in the past.  I know it _could_ be coincidence, but something tells me that you knew him.  I want to why you went after him that night?  And why you went after me, twice, as far as I know.  I want to know what memories you stole from us."

He was getting perilously close to territory she much rather would avoid, mostly because she wasn't completely sure how to answer, herself.  As far as Blackarachnia was concerned, Sentinel and Optimus had been the Blurr to her Shockwave – the Autobots that she just couldn't stay away from, even though she knew it was wrong.  But at least _she_ had the excuse of several thousand stellar cycles of history and one life-altering event to compound the drama. 

Deep down, some part of her still cared about her two former best friends – still saw them as the way they were, young and careless, ready to take on all that the universe held in store, just the three of them.  She'd sought each of them out on the island, the first time she's seen either of them since the accident, perhaps to see what she'd missed out on these past thousand stellar cycles.  _My_ how things change.

Both had become Primes for starters.  Optimus was reasonable as ever, and still deeply caring when it came to his friends.  She'd had to take down his hulking green friend, who had panicked and started flailing his wrecking ball here and there, trying to get at her – he even managed to knock down a fairly substantial tree.  He would've been the second bot to die that night, had Optimus not intervened, ready to risk his life to protect those he cared about – if only he'd showed the same resolve on Archa Seven.

Sentinel, meanwhile, had changed for the worse, naïve idealism souring into bitter paranoia, though his arrogance had remained unchanged.  It was funny, almost, in a twisted way.  She'd made the mistake of telling him her true identity, hoping that it would soften her old friend's bitter attitude.  He'd called her a liar and an abomination, and then had tried to kill her.  She hadn't bothered telling Optimus for fear of the same results.

"Well?" he prompted, pulling her away from her thoughts.

She shrugged, distressed façade fading away.  "Why do _you_ think I did any of that?"

"If I knew that, I wouldn't have asked," he said, and then after a pause, added, "Though I'll admit that I feel some kind of – _connection_ with you, for one reason or another.  I guess you could say I'm curious.  Do you feel it too?"

Tired of the game, Blackarachnia at last rose to her feet, albeit with some trouble.  "Fine, I'll bite.  Yes, I know you, you know me, and Sentinel _knew_ me.  And that's all I’m saying on the matter.  If you can't figure it out on your own, you don't deserve to know.

"Anyway, I would love to stay and reminisce, but I'm still bleeding out as we speak, and to be honest, I'm starting to feel a little dizzy."   _That_ was true, or so the spinning of the earth around her suggested.  "So if you wanna run off and go hunt down your little friends, or whatever, then go have fun, but know that if I die, it'll be because _you_ killed me."

Something in her words must have struck a chord with Optimus; his optics widened, terrified, and he backed away half a step, before catching himself.  What was his issue _now_?

He recovered from his brief shock quickly enough, and without another word spared, dismissed his axe, instead pulling out a medical kit.  Blackarachnia didn't trust his sudden change in demeanor, but what choice did she have?

"Change your mind?" she laughed, haughty.

Optimus looked half-ready to change his mind back again, but he stayed the course.  "Turn around, we'll need to patch that.  I'm afraid I don't know much about medicine, and I know next to nothing about organics, so let me know if I'm doing something wrong."

He was so serious, it was almost charming.  "Will do," she said, wincing at the burn as he filled the wound with a liquid patch, as the medicine spread across the length of the gash, hardening into a metal, meant as a temporary weld until internal repairs picked up the slack.  It really had been a comically small wound, in the grand scheme of things – it was almost embarrassing to need to rely on someone else for help, but she wasn't about to upset the Prime now by saying so.

"Nice job, Champ.  I suppose I should thank you," she said, twisting her neck around to catch a glimpse at his handiwork.

"You can thank me by lending me a servo," Optimus said, moving so they stood face-to-face once more.

"Ah, I knew there was a catch.  Look, I'm no Autobot – been there, done that, not my thing.  I'm not going to track down your little buddies for you."

Optimus shook his head.  "I don't need you to help me find Bumblebee and Bulkhead.  What I want to know about is Shockwave.  How true is that story you were telling me?  Did Shockwave really do this to you, or were you just being dramatic?"

She should've known Optimus wouldn't have bought it.  He always had been good at picking the truth from lies.  Not that she had much reason to lie at this point.  "That was true, yes.  Shockwave attacked me, but I attacked him too.  Right now he should be back at the cave, dead or close to it.  I admit I wasn't too keen on following up at the time."

"Shockwave's dead?" Optimus repeated, optics widening again.

"Yeesh, is there an echo in here?  He was becoming a liability, so I tried to axe him.  Didn't really work the way I'd intended it to."

As she spoke, Optimus regained his composure, allowing a long vent of air to pass over his fans.  "So he's no longer a threat," he said, though he sounded uncertain.

"Not even a little," she smirked.

"Then this could be our chance to arrest him."

Blackarachnia scoffed.  " _Arrest_ him?  You don't _arrest_ Shockwave.  He's a clever bastard – he'll find a way out.  Pit, you've got his stupid little lover in your own ranks.  You'd have to arrest him too, just to be safe, and best I can tell, _he's_ done nothing wrong.  Are you prepared to do that, Optimus?"  As predicted, he turned aside, caving into his weakness.

But then, he said the funniest thing.

"I'm prepared to do what it takes.  I'll arrest Blurr if I have to.  Shockwave can't be allowed to roam free anymore."

Blackarachnia let out a whistle of admiration.  "Big words, Prime – big words.  But if you're so keen on _arresting_ Shockwave, who am I to deny you?  All I want is for him to be out of the picture."

"Then what are we waiting for?  Let's go!"

But Blackarachnia did not like this plan.  Getting rid of Shockwave was one thing, but she still felt possessive of her space bridge.  Like the Pit was she allowing any more Autobots to find out about its existence!

"No need for you to go through the trouble.  I've got a better idea.  Call in that friend of yours, the nosy one with the flashy white paintjob."

"Jazz?  What's wrong with me going?"

Blackarachnia shook her head, for once having an easy answer to his question.  "Because you're in a hurry, remember?"

Optimus fixed her with a suspicious frown.  "I was worried they'd run into you or Shockwave, but with both of you accounted for, I have no reason to find the others right now.  They'll be fine."

"On the contrary," Blackarachnia said, pulling a cube of energon from her subspace and chugging it down.  With the leak patched up, she felt she could use a little boost, especially given what kind of door she was about to unlock.  Optimus waited patiently for her to finish.

"He and I were not your only enemies on this island," she continued, wiping a trickle of energon from her lips. "And, correct me if I'm wrong, but you said the bots you were looking for were called Bumblebee and Bulkhead?  They're the green one and the yellow one, correct?"

"Yes," he said with hesitation.

"Then they're not out of the woods yet, if you'll excuse the pun."

Optimus's face gave no indication that he'd even noticed it.  What a boring mech.  "What do you mean?"

"I mean, Waspinator is still out there, and he seems to have a particular distaste for your 'Bumblebee.'  Primus knows why."

"Waspinator?" Optimus questioned, hostility diminishing. 

"Oh, excuse me.  I believe you knew him as 'Wasp.'"

His expression was every bit as woefully delicious and infuriating as it had been the last time he'd been made aware of Wasp's continued survival.  Would he respond the same upon finding out that _she_ lived?  Or would he join Sentinel in his denial?

"Wasp is alive?!  Here?!"

Blackarachnia let out a sigh.  "Yes, yes, we've been over this already.  I found him and his dead friend, I nursed him back to health, made him stronger, like me."

"Stronger?  What does that –"

"Techno-organic," Blackarachnia interrupted, trying to move the conversation along.  Optimus looked particularly displeased, and she was pretty sure it wasn't because of the interruption. 

"Look, we can go into the morality of what I did another time, remember _you're_ the one who's in a hurry.  All I'll say, is that what I did saved his life, but that right now, he's injured, unstable, unsupervised, and probably going to go after your friend.   So you can sit around here and chat, or you can go track them down."

The look on his face implied that this conversation would continue later (a likely notion!), but ultimately, he seemed to agree with her need to hurry.  However, he did not immediately go bounding off into the bushes as she'd expected.

"Well?  Shoo already!  Go save your friend."  She waved her uninjured hand at him in an effort to get him to go away.  As much as her spark wanted to be close to Optimus, there was only so much of wishy-washy, feel-good, Autobot antics she could take in one sitting.

"You're coming with me," he stated as fact, leaving no room for argument.  Blackarachnia didn't like where this was going.

"Okay, look.  I know you want to _arrest_ me, or whatever, but do you have no sense of urgency?  Waspinator could be tearing your friends apart right now!  You fixed my energon leak, but I'm still half-useless.  I'll only slow you down.  So you just go on ahead, and leave me to my own business."

But still, he wouldn't budge.  He met her optics with his own, all business and determination.  How lame.

But then he said those words, and Blackarachnia's spark nearly skipped a beat.

"I lost you once already.  I don't want to lose you again."

Could it be?  Did he actually?

  "What are you talking about?" she said, brushing off the comment.  But Optimus was persistent.

"You're Elita-1, aren't you?  I admit I could be wrong, but it feels so right in my spark.  The moment you said 'you killed me,' something clicked.  You're her.  Your face may be different, you're a Decepticon, part-organic, and a bit cruel, to be honest, but it's still you.  I don't know how you survived, and I don't know what happened since, but I do know I'm not letting you out of my sight until I get an explanation."

He was taking everything better than she'd thought he would.  Perhaps it was just because there were bigger issues on his mind at the moment.  The reemergence of a friend long thought to be dead, as both a Decepticon and a freak barely seemed to register to him.  Still, he had been so earnest, that Blackarachnia found herself unwilling to deny him.

"It's Blackarachnia now."

"Sorry, what?" he said, tilting his head in confusion.

"My name.  But whatever, not important.  You guessed right!  Congratulations!  Your prize is three cycles spent reminiscing about the old days while your little buddies are brutally murdered.  As I said, you can save them, but I can't come with you.  So tick tock, Optimus.  What will it be?"

His answer was to transform into alt mode.  He was just full of surprises.

"Hop on," he said.

"You can't mean to drive through the wilderness in that thing!"

"But I do.  I can handle a little tough terrain.  Now stop wasting time and hop on, Blackarachnia.  I'll comm Jazz about the Shockwave situation on the way over, but you're right.  Bumblebee and Bulkhead could be in trouble right now, and I'm not going to let anything happen to anyone else I care about.  We'll talk later, but for now, let's go!"

When he put it that way, what choice did she have? 

Well, it wasn't his words which moved her, so much as her current lack of allies, as well as a lack of anything else to do, at least until Shockwave was taken care of.  With a weary sigh of, "Okay, whatever," she crawled atop his truck bed and hung on, as he drove them fast as he could through trees and brush.  What had she gotten herself into?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. This was originally supposed to be an Optimus chapter, but I really wasn't feeling it at all, so after writing some 2000 words, I said 'fuck it,' and started over from scratch. Got the new draft finished in a couple hours x.x I've been looking forward to the next few for awhile, so hopefully they'll be a bit faster.


	36. Flirting With Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz is fully aware just how dangerous his current path is. He intends to get his affairs in order, just in case everything should go horribly wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if you happen to notice a lot of words missing the letter 'O,' do forgive me. My keyboard is broken. The rest of the typos, however, have no excuse.
> 
> Enjoy!

Jazz needed a plan.  Well, to be fair, he had a plan.  He just needed a better one.  As their time on the island wore on, and their numbers continued to dwindle, Jazz was becoming increasingly aware that he had acquired more information on their current predicament than anyone else, with the exception of maybe Shockwave.  Who knew what _he_  was thinking?

The point was, if Jazz died, which seemed increasingly like a thing that could happen as he put himself in more and more danger with each speck of intel gleaned, he very much feared that the others would be left blind to the hideous truths that had become his life as of late.  At this point, it wasn't a matter of _if_ he'd wake one morning with an axe in his back, but of which of his enemies would land the killing blow (though axe metaphor aside, it probably wouldn't be Optimus.)  And so, he'd begun to act.

Telling Blurr about the space bridge had been a dangerous move.  No matter his level of involvement, whatever Jazz said would likely find its way back to Shockwave.  But as far as Jazz was concerned, finding out whose side Blurr was on was worth the risk.  Jazz needed all the help he could get, and Blurr was easily one of the most competent mechs on the island.  If there was any chance of recruiting him as an ally, he would leap on it.  As long as he didn't let on that he knew Longarm's true identity, then he probably wouldn't be in any immediate danger, at least. 

And indeed, the risk had paid off.  He knew Blurr well enough to know when he was lying, and the betrayal in his voice this morning had been real.  Shockwave hadn't told him about the bridge, and if Shockwave didn't trust Blurr with news of their ticket home, what reason would he have to share his more devastating secret?  With that knowledge secured, and the beginnings of a wedge driven between the lovebirds, Jazz felt safe in writing off Blurr as a threat.  Thank Primus.

On the other hand, telling Prowl and Jetfire about Shockwave and the bridge had been an immediate safety measure, to keep his most important knowledge from dying with him, should he be taken by surprise.  If there was any mech on the island who could understand and respect Jazz's motivations, it was Prowl.  If push came to shove, he could be trusted to not do anything stupid.  And whatever he did, Jetfire would likely follow.  He seemed to have taken an unprecedented liking to Prowl following Sentinel's death.

With the most important tasks out of the way, Jazz finally had a moment of respite.

And so he'd found himself in a tranquil clearing of his own, seated on the brush-covered ground as he combed through his processor for any other relevant files to throw into the info packet he'd been compiling.  Here he'd keep his information about the Orion, about Blackarachnia and Waspinator, and so on.  He'd program it to send itself to Prowl the instant his spark stopped pulsing.  Problem solved.  Of course, with any luck, it wouldn't come to that.

He wasn't certain how much of this would prove relevant en the end.  The Orion had been destroyed in another lifetime.  It was far from their current worries, but Jazz couldn't let it go.  Wheeljack had built the ship's engine – somehow that cat had got out of the bag, and into the hands of Prowl's ex-conjunx.  Moreover, a bomb that the scientist had built had backfired in what surely was the most spectacular manner in recent history.  He was beginning to suspect that Wheeljack had a little mole problem.

Also of interest, was the issue of the missing core.  Prowl had claimed time and again that he'd stolen at least two of the things.  One was accounted for – responsible for the organic graveyard from the day of their arrival on the island, but when Jazz had asked last night, Prowl had been most uninformative as to the fate of the rest.  What reason did he have to hide anything at this point?  Maybe he needed to rethink sending this file to _him_.

Blackarachnia too, was a matter that caught his interest.  Where in Primus's name had she come from?  She (not to mention Waspinator) stood out far too much to have been on the ship without his notice, and the advanced state of her lab gave the impression that she'd been here for awhile now.  But she was clearly stranded, if the half-built space bridge was any indication.  Who was she?  _What_ was she?  How had she gotten here?  And how did she know Optimus? 

That would be sufficient for now.  He'd add more as it came up.  In the meantime, he'd remain in his grove and get some meditation in while he waited for the file to compile.  It had been far too long since he'd been able to relax.  If only things had turned out as planned.

He didn't know how Bumblebee had found him, but he'd managed nonetheless, bursting into the clearing dramatically, kicking up a flurry of underbrush behind him.  He could have been heard approaching from as far away as Cybertron.

"There you are!" the little guy cried out, stomping forward with a ferocity that was somewhat diminished by the sticks and leaves clinging to the cracks in his plating, as though he were an abnormally articulated tree.

"Ain't it a bit dangerous to be running around these woods alone?" Jazz asked, too amused by the sight of Bumlbetree to be annoyed.

"Look who's talking!" came the quick retort.

"Touché."

"Besides," he continued, "I didn't come here alone.  Bulkhead came with me.  He's just giving me a moment so we can have a personal conversation."

"Ah, I get ya."  He wasn't sure that _now_ was the time to have this talk with Bumblebee, but there was no reason not to hear him, at least.  Who knew if he'd have a chance to later?  "What you wanna talk about?"

Bumblebee growled, as though offended by the very question.  "What do you think I wanna talk about?  How 'bout the way you lead me on all this time?!  How 'bout the way you played up being nice and handsome and sweet, while you had an ulterior motive all the while.  Or how about how you just decided that you knew what was best for me, like I'm some kind of dumb kid who can't even help himself?  No, gotta have some cool asshole guiding me every step of the way, 'cause if I'm left alone, I might mess up again!  What _am_ I to you?!"  His frame was shaking, fans turned to full blast to ease the heat of his fury.  It was enough to sour Jazz's brief good mood.

"I don't know what you wanna hear from me," he shrugged.  "I told you why I did what I did, and I ain't gonna apologize for tryin' to save your life.  Was I dishonest?  Sure.  Who here ain't?  Do I think you can't take care of yourself?  In this mess?  No.  And that ain't a knock against you.  The only one of us who mighta got outta this, no scars, was Ratchet, and look what happened to him."  Bumblebee winced at the mention of Ratchet – it clearly still troubled him.  But Jazz didn't apologize.  He kept pressing forward, vainly hoping that he could get through to the little guy.  "I've been lookin' out for you as I've been for everyone else.  And in the end, I don't care whose feelings get hurt, so long as we all get outta here alive."

It wasn't enough to abate Bumblebee's rage.  "See?  There you go, doing it again!  You are _so_ condescending!"  He waved his arms and stomped his feet, verging on another tantrum.  It was not something Jazz wanted to deal with.  But he stubbornly pressed on.

"Now don't go getting' mad.  Believe it or not, you ain't the only one here who's seen some shit, who deserves to have his needs met.  All of us are hurting here, some more than others.  You're not special, Bumblebee - you gotta accept that.  And besides, you had no problem with me lookin' out for you when you thought I was into you.  If you don't wanna be treated like a child, then you gotta stop acting like one."

The words were harsh, even when said in Jazz's normally calm voice.  He was aware that he wasn't helping, but even _he_ couldn't stave off the frustration.  For his part, Bumblebee deflated a little, shooting Jazz a wounded glare.

"Y'know, I looked up to you, Jazz.  I mean, I'm not an idiot; I know that I’m not easy to get along with, and maybe I'm not very mature, but you never treated me like I was less because of it – well, that's what I'd thought anyway.  Guess that's a lesson learned then – see?  I can do _that_ too!  Learn!  See? 'Stop trusting your spark, Bumblebee.  It causes nothing but trouble.'  There's the lesson!  Did I pass?"

Jazz didn't care to acknowledge the statement, and he had no desire to argue.  Even _his_ patience had its limits.  He vented deeply; he'd give it one more shot before considering this conversation a lost cause.  Bumblebee had to have been the most stubborn bot he'd ever met.

"Look," he said, his calm coming with great effort.  "I don't wanna fight with you – least of all about something like this.  I'm convinced I'm right, you're convinced you been wronged.  Neither of us is gonna change his mind anytime soon, so I ain't gonna try and argue it.  Just tell me what you want from me to make this right with you, and if it's in my power, I'll do it."

Bumblebee's scowl vanished, if only for a moment – he was at a loss for words.  Jazz rather suspected that even Bumblebee didn't know what he wanted.  He was angry and hurt and lashing out, because it was all he knew how to do.  How piteous.  It made Jazz want to pull the kid into a tight hug and tell him that everything would be all right.  But he refrained.  _That_ would've been counter-productive.

The moment of silence was fleeting, however, as Bumblebee's shock transformed into fierce determination.

"I just wanna be treated like I’m part of the team.  My life's on the line as much as yours is, why don't I get to do anything about it?  I can be useful too!  Just give me a chance!  That's all I want here!"

Jazz pursed his lips in a tight frown.  Fact was, Bumblebee had already proven himself unreliable in the biggest possible way – he was negligent, distractible, lazy, and easily overcome by his emotions.  But on the other hand, he wasn't much worse than the competition – the broken, the betrayers, the liars.  And that was to say nothing of himself – nosy and arrogant, flirting with death more often than not.  Instinct told him he'd regret it, but maybe Bumblebee was right – maybe it was time to stop listening to his spark.  He wasn't exactly innocent in their current predicament – his spark had told him to trust Prowl, to trust Sentinel, and even Longarm at some point.  Clearly, even sparks could be wrong.

"Fair enough," he said.  "You wanna play in the big leagues, I ain't gonna stand in your way."

Again, Bumblebee's face softened, overcome with surprise.  "Really?!"

"Sure.  I _might_ even have a mission for you and you alone in the next couple days."

Bumblebee narrowed his optics, suddenly suspicious.  "Oh yeah, sure.  Of course you do.  I knew this was too good to be true.  You're just giving me busywork aren't you?  To make me feel like I'm doing something important.  I'm on to you!" 

But Jazz could only laugh – a helpless sound that Bumblebee didn't seem to pick up on.  "Swear to Primus.  Well, hopefully it won't come to that."

"What is it?" Bumblebee asked, at last lowering his guard. 

"You'll know when it comes up, but if it does, then that means everything's gone horribly wrong."

"Am I really that hard to trust?" Bumblebee groaned, deflating.  "How does giving me a mission you don't want to exist prove that you respect me?"

Jazz met Bumblebee's optics, all of the usual mirth in his expressions gone.  "I can't discuss this right now, but trust me, I would not give this job to anyone I didn't trust."

Bumblebee regarded Jazz for another suspicious moment, but at last, he backed down, seemingly satisfied.

"Okay then.  I'll believe you . . . this time."  It was a silly ting to say, but laughing would have insulted the little mech's fragile pride.  He did allow himself a smile, however.  It felt better than frowning.

"Anyway, I'd better get back to Bulkhead.  He's probably getting worried."  He backed away, slowly, as if there was still more to say.

"I'll leave you to it then," Jazz said with a nod.  The acknowledgement seemed to be all that Bumblebee needed.  He swirled around on his heel, and scurried back into the woods, every bit as noisy as before.  Surely Jazz was making a huge mistake.

He didn't have time to dwell, however.  Optimus was calling.

~~~

This did not feel right in the slightest.  Just yesterday, he'd been trying to convince himself that Shockwave's continued freedom was necessary in their escape.  Now he was being ordered, by Blackarachnia no less (how wrong was _that?)_ to arrest him.  _That_ was a joke.  Out here, with a severe lack of resources, capturing Shockwave alive was not going to be an option, and Jazz wasn't about to increase the chances of his own death because the bot behind the order didn't have the guts for execution.  Unless he was granted a miracle, he would have to kill Shockwave.   

But all that earlier bravado about not trusting his spark aside, the fact that a Decepticon wanted him to 'get rid of' another Decepticon did not sit well with him, and the fact that Optimus had approved was even worse.  The Prime was naïve, and this scenario had the word 'trap' written all over it.

Which was why, when he arrived in the lab, that he was surprised to find Shockwave in all of his monstrous glory, lying in a pile of spindly limbs on the floor, chest hanging wide open, while he propped himself half up on the work bench, head hung low, optic glazed over.  Despite the obvious effort he was putting into staying conscious, he still retained some degree of alertness.  His antennae twitched as Jazz entered the chamber, and Shockwave turned his heavy head to face him, too weakened to do any more than that.

"I knew it would be you that killed me."  It was easily the most unpleasant situation Jazz had been in since his own youth.  He'd faced down a fair number of Decepticons during his time with the Elite Guard, but none had held so alien an appearance.  Even with Shockwave at his weakest, staring into that ancient, red optic made his plating crawl.  Jazz had every advantage, so why did it feel like _he_ was the one being hunted.  He couldn't allow Shockwave to see any of this fear – or taste it.  He doubted Shockwave could see much of anything right now, given the dull glow to his optic.

"I guess so," Jazz answered without missing a beat.  Surely it wouldn't be this easy.  Shockwave was trying to make him lower his guard.  He couldn't have survived as long as he had without having learned a few tricks.  Jazz had to give this his all, and use every advantage he had.  Moreover, he had to know his enemy.

Jazz's nunchucks would do little damage against Shockwave's Decepticon armor; he'd have to rely on precision strikes instead.  The optic was an obvious target, but he had a feeling that taking out those sensitive antennae would do far more damage.   He had to bear in mind the weapons at Shockwave's disposal as well.  He recalled Sentinel's corpse, torn apart by brutal claws.  The claws themselves would be hard to damage, but they could be disabled with a  strike to the soft joints beneath.  And presumably, he retained Longarm's stretch powers.  Shockwave could be anywhere in the room without moving an inch, both a curse in a blessing, affording him range, but making him into a bigger target.

But it was the cannon that had Jazz the most worried.  He'd taken down the Jet Twins, who were stronger, tougher, and faster than Jazz, without a fight.  He could not allow Shockwave the chance to fire his weapon.

A wounded Shockwave was still a dangerous Shockwave, and Jazz was going to have to pull out every trick he knew in order to win, but he did have one thing working in his favor. Shockwave's spark chamber was on display, providing an easy kill point, provided he could get in close enough to reach it.  That would be his final target.  Disable Shockwave, smash his spark.  Stick to the plan.

"Before you snuff out my spark, I believe I am entitled to one final request."  Shockwave said, as though he were not staring death in the face.

Jazz shouldn't have so much as considered allowing the monster the chance to talk his way out of this, but he had to admit that he was curious.  "I'll think about it.  Last Request is Autobot law, and as you sure as the Pit ain't no Autobot, I got no obligation to fulfill it."

"But you'll fulfill this one," Shockwave said, without a hint of doubt.

"Will I?"  It was difficult to read emotions on the creature's lack of face, but if he had to take a guess, he'd say Shockwave was annoyed.

"Jazz, you're a reasonable soul.  All I ask is that you protect Blurr.  I believe we can agree to those terms.  He knows nothing about me, he's done nothing wrong.  Leave him out of this."

Well, wasn't _that_ interesting? 

"Usin' your dyin' wish to protect Blurr?  Tell me, what is he to you?"

Expression absent from voice and face, the monster said, "I suppose I love him.  You will not believe me – you are too Autobot for that, and even _I_ have trouble believing it, I admit, but here we are – the end of my world has come, all because I allowed him to break my control."  He sat up a little straighter, abused vents shuddering under the effort.  "But I promise, he had no hand in any of the murders.  Keep him safe, or I shall find a way to destroy you, even from the Afterspark."

Jazz barely saw the movement, but it was all the warning he needed.  He threw himself to the side, narrowly dodging the cannon fire, the heat still scorching his plating.  He'd been stalling – Jazz had already made the mistake of not keeping an optic on _both_ of Shockwave's hands.  He'd somehow managed to transform the thing into a cannon without his notice.  But still, a weapon like that took a lot of energy to run, and several nano-kliks to recharge..  Drained as he was, surely the weapon was spent.

Shockwave fired again, and again Jazz narrowly dodged.  It wasn't by chance.   Shockwave's movements were sluggish and his aim wide – it was the only reason Jazz continued to exist.  But bad aim or not, this was a terrible location for cannon fire.

The wall at his back exploded as the cannon fired a third time, raining rubble down upon him – enough to dent his plating, but he remained undamaged beyond that.  How was Shockwave finding the power to do this?  Two shots from a weapon like that was miraculous.  Three was unheard of.

And four was impossible.  But Shockwave was here to prove him wrong.  He needed to be stopped, and not only because Jazz's life was on the line.  If Shockwave kept up, he'd hit the space bridge, and that could _not_ be allowed to happen.  Jazz needed to disable the cannon.

Shockwave fired a fifth time, and Jazz ducked under, ignoring the fire at his back, and made his charge.  His sharp optics sought out a target, a weakness, a load-bearing joint.  Finding none, he did the only other thing he could think of.

He had two pairs of nunchucks, surely he could still survive with one jammed inside the barrel of the cannon.  Shockwave stumbled backwards with a  growl, unable to dislodge the weapon, unable to fire, and unable to turn his arm back like this.  Instead, he did the next best thing, and swung his entire cannon arm at Jazz, but again, the movement was slow, and Jazz dodged easily, choosing instead to turn Shockwave's own attack against him.  He ran up the long arm, and made a flying leap, slamming his remaining nunchuck hard into Shockwave's left antenna.  It snapped in two, half of the sensitive mechanism falling to the ground, the clatter it would have made drowned out by Shockwave's agonized scream.  Jazz never thought he would hear such a terrifying sound in his lifetime, let alone from the mouth of such an eerie individual. He was flung away by frantic arms, and into a wall, hard enough to crack it.  The light plating of his back was dented and torn, and only a mastery of meditation was able to ward off the worst of the pain, but he was at least better off than his opponent.  His optics told him that much.

Shockwave's untransformed arm came flying at him in a blind fury, but it wasn't fast enough.  This time, Jazz twisted to the side, and brought his weapon down on the joints at the base of those claws, with a sharp crack.  They didn't snap this time, but it was enough to tear the joints and shatter the structural supports.  The terrifying things fell limp, this time, accompanied by a sharp his from their owner.  And then, as though realizing that he was still exposed, and becoming increasingly vulnerable, Shockwave withdrew his hand, and instead brought it to his chest.  Already, Jazz could hear the creak of frozen gears trying to force the protective plating shut.  If Shockwave cut off access to his spark, then Jazz had very little hope of killing him.  He'd need a strike painful enough that Shockwave would lose control again, and leave himself open to attack.  The other antenna would suffice.

He leapt forward, ready to send it to the same fate as its opposite, but Shockwave was prepared.  His arms weren't fast enough to counter Jazz at the moment, so instead he extended his neck, in a last-ditch effort to protect the thing.  Unfortunately, this left Jazz with a clear hit to his optic.  The material didn't shatter as he'd expected, but it did develop an unhealthy crack right down its center, sparks flying from the wound as the red light within blinked helplessly in an attempt to stay online.  Shockwave was forced to withdraw, as the struggled to regain his bearings, a difficult task while deprived of so much of his sensory input.

However, Jazz was still in close, and he'd gotten Shockwave exactly where he wanted.  He could see it, beneath him - a clear path t Shockwave's spark.  He'd be putting himself between that arm and Shockwave's body – putting himself at risk of being grabbed, but it was a chance he was willing to take.

Now was the moment.  He gained his footing on Shockwave's right shoulder, then slid down that massive chest until he was spark level.  He could see it before him – massive and blue, flickering with red energy every so often - Shockwave's life and soul, his multi-million stellar cycle reign of terror, finally at its end.  He had no time to think of the consequences – how Optimus would react to the disobeyed order, how Blurr would treat him with his lover dead, what Blackarachnia planned to do in the absence of her former partner. 

Jazz swung his weapon hard, aiming for Shockwave's spark – a fitting end for the murderous beast.


	37. Identity Crisis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blurr has strayed far from the path of the Autobot cause - from all he once believed to be good and right, and he can no longer bring himself to care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted two chapters within three days. This one was actually pretty much done yesterday (due to a HELLA slow day at work), but I felt weird about posting so soon. Anyway, I give you . . . this.

Jazz was fast.

Blurr was faster.

He hadn’t intended for it to end this way when he left the base.  He’d only meant to come out and sabotage Shockwave’s space bridge.  But it had been Jazz to give him the coordinates, and ultimately, relying on them had proven to be a mistake.  He wasn’t trusted enough, clearly, as he’d been sent to a twisting maze of a cave system, quickly coming to the conclusion that he’d been duped.  Following that, he’d raced around the cavernous hillside for several kliks in search of the elusive mystery cave.  In fact, he may not have found it at all, had his optic not been caught by a trail of familiar pink liquid, glistening in the dirt.

_No!_ _  
_

He'd raced into the cave, fearing the worst.  His imagination was not to be disappointed. Never had he wanted to see Shockwave like this – on his knees, bleeding and broken, spark bared as an easy target, while Jazz rushed in for the kill.  It awoke something protective within Blurr – possessive and brutal.  Before he knew what he was doing, he was standing before Shockwave, the both of them painted in a sea of pink, as Jazz lay at his feet, split in two diagonally across his spark.

_What have I done?_

He was shaking, hard enough that he lost his hold on his bloodied saw, which fell to the ground with a clatter, splashing even more of that glowing pink energon across his pedes.   _No!_

This wasn’t real!  Blurr never would have killed one of his own allies, least of all for a Decepticon!  His mind was playing tricks on him, for how long now, he didn’t know.  Maybe he’d always been like this.  Maybe his entire life was a lie.  Was that possible?

He laughed at the absurdity of it all – what a funny dream his fragged-up processor had concocted!  Killing Jazz!  Hah!  Loving  _Shockwave_?!  Hahah!  This was all too  _funny_!  What would Longarm think?

The short squawks of laughter turned into rapid-fire cackling, fast enough to be indistinguishable from feedback.  And through it all, Shockwave sat, staring at Blurr with little sense of comprehension.

“Blurr?” he said, voice crackling with feedback of its own.  “Is that you?”

The question served to only intensify Blurr's laughter.

Shockwave inched forward, hesitating when his knee made contact the lump of metal that was Jazz’s corpse.  He turned his attention downward, cracked optic flickering weakly as he tried to take in the gruesome scene. 

“I did it,” Blurr said, voice calm and pleased, as if killing Jazz had been some great accomplishment.  “I killed him!  For you!  My own ally!  I guess I’m a monster too!” he laughed at the notion.

“Blurr,” Shockwave said, voice surprisingly soft.  But Blurr didn’t want to let Shockwave talk.  He’d only try to convince him that any of this was real, try to fill his head with more lies.

“No, I’m worse than you!  You killed your enemies to save me,” he said, voice picking up speed as the panic began to set in.  “But me?   _Me_?  Me!  ME!!  I killed Jazz!  He was the closest thing I had to a friend in the Elite guard, and now he’s dead because I saw him there trying to hurt you, and I didn’t want him to hurt you – I wanted to protect you, because I love you, I love you, I  _love_   _you_!  Ha-ha!

“And you’re my enemy and we should want each other dead – I should want you dead – I could kill you now!  Should!  That’s who I am, right?  What I do?”  He leapt over Jazz’s corpse, standing just tall enough to lean his head on Shockwave’s shoulder, wrap his arms around that thick neck.  Shockwave didn’t react.

“And you could kill me too!  We both deserve it!  And without us, everyone else can be happy, and no one else will need to die!”  He trailed off in a fit of uncomfortable laughter, stopping only when Shockwave’s arm, claws hanging limply on their base, wrapped itself around his body, and pulled him in close.

“Neither of us is killing anyone right now.  It is clear that this event has hurt you very much.  You need some space.”  Without rising to his feet, Shockwave began to back away from the body, dragging Blurr with him.

Why was Shockwave taking this so well?  He was supposed to be angry – supposed to punish Blurr.  He wanted to be punished; he’d committed the ultimate crime!  Why couldn’t Shockwave do this one thing for him? 

But why would he want to?  He’d won, after all.  He had Blurr exactly where he wanted him, in his arms and away from the Autobots, his loyalty secured.  That had been his favorite trait right?  Loyalty to himself.  Shockwave must be ecstatic right now.  But Blurr wanted to die.  He wanted penance, not coddling.  He wanted Shockwave to tear him apart, in the same way he’d done to Sentinel Prime.  But he would find no such solace in Shockwave.

“Quit being so pleased with yourself,” he snapped, kicking half-heartedly at Shockwave’s frame.  To his surprise, Shockwave let go with a pained grunt, sending Blurr flying backwards under the force of his own blow – perhaps the kick hadn’t been so weak as he’d though.

From this distance, Blurr was able to take in Shockwave’s appearance for the first time since . . . no.  That never happened!  It was all just a bad dream!

But real or not, Blurr couldn’t deny that Shockwave looked terrible.  He barely had the energy to hold his head up, his optic and left antenna alike had taken damage, as had the claws of his right servo.  His left servo seemed to be stuck in weapon mode, while his chest was surely frozen in an open position, and that was to say nothing of his new, bloody paint job (even if most of it  _wasn’t_  his).

What was he doing?  Shockwave had almost died!  Would have, if Blurr hadn’t attempted to sabotage him.  Still might – who knew?  Blurr didn’t want to think about Jazz or the other Autobots or anything else – didn't have time to. All he wanted was for the world to disappear all over again, until it was just the two of them, forever.

Cautiously, he made his way back over to Shockwave, taking a moment to collect himself before speaking again.  Try as he might, he couldn’t keep the manic edge off, but at least he’d wrested control of the speed.

“I’m sorry.”  Motions controlled and gentle, he laid his hand against the uninjured side of Shockwave’s head.  “You’re the one that’s hurt now, right?  Not me.  You’re hurt and I want you to not be hurt – I want you to –“  He cut himself off before he fell into another repetitive loop.

“What I mean is, I’m sorry I’m acting so selfish.  You’re the one hurt here.  Not me.”  He couldn’t stop the broken laugh from escaping.  What was  _wrong_  with him?

“Your feelings are valid,” Shockwave said, with surprising force, given how weak he appeared.  “Just because the wounds aren’t physical, doesn’t mean they’re not there.”

Blurr shook his head and tightened his grip on Shockwave’s helm.  “Stop defending me!  I’m not worth defending!  I’m a monster!  You should  _hate me!_ ”

“Blurr,” Shockwave interrupted.

Blurr released Shockwave’s helm, shaking his head to clear the intrusive thoughts.  “What’s wrong with me?”

“You’ve been through traumatic experience after traumatic experience in such a short duration of time.  Of course you are unwell.

“Here,” he said, sitting up straighter, until Blurr was eye-level with his open chest.  “Come here.”

Blurr stumbled closer until he was braced against Shockwave’s chest plate.  It burned to the touch, but he didn’t let go.

“Why are you running so hot?” he asked, suddenly worried.

“Recovering from a nasty virus,” he answered, nuzzling Blurr’s antenna as best he could manage with his unusually-shaped face.  “Jazz was not the only bot to try and kill me today.”

Blurr stepped back to look him in the optic, aware that, through the crack, Shockwave likely couldn’t see much of anything.  Had Jazz done that to him?  He would  _kill_  him for it!  How dare he think he could lay his hands on Shockwave!  And the same fate to any other bot with the gall to lay hands on  _his_  beloved . . . There was something wrong with his thought process, but he didn’t dare look at it too closely.

He averted his optics, feeling strangely ashamed, and found them instead drawn by the light of Shockwave’s spark.  He’d seen a few in his time, but none like this, none so large, so corrupted, so alien.

“Why is it pulsing red?” he asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

“It’s a side effect from the Decepticon branding process.  It is also what changes our optics red.”

Blurr was transfixed by the gentle, steady pulse of that massive spark, the serene blue offset by trickles of red, and even more so, the feeling that emanated from within it, engulfing him with a barrage of feelings – of calmness, of love and safety, of home.  Blurr could've lost himself in Shockwave forever, but somehow, distracted as he was, the words kept flowing from his mouth.

“Will the same thing happen to me?”

He didn’t realized what he’d said, until Shockwave provided his answer.

“Are you intending to convert?  Become a Decepticon?”

It was the last word that reached him, piercing straight through to his own spark.  He flinched away.

“Never mind.  You don’t have to answer that right now.”

Blurr didn’t want to be a Decepticon, truth be told, but he couldn’t be an Autobot anymore either.  He was nothing.  A traitor, a monster, evil, evil,  _evil._   He had to get out of here – to run away, and hide, somewhere far off, where nothing could ever hurt him again.  He turned away from Shockwave, caving into the urge for but a moment, before he caught sight of Jazz's body, split in two, lying on the cave floor.  He froze in place, the reality of the moment catching up to him – what  _he_  wanted didn’t mean anything.  He’d made his choice.  For better or worse, he was stuck with Shockwave.

“Blurr, come back here,” Shockwave’s voice sounded so weak, so drained.  It made Blurr want to run even more.  “You’re upsetting yourself.”

Blurr turned his back on the body, but instead of returning to Shockwave, he decided he would explore the rest of the room.  If he couldn’t run away, he could still move around at least.

He heard Shockwave shift at his back, position himself so that he was leaning against the wall.  “Blurr,” he said again. 

“I need to move –  _move_  – up and around and away and you don’t look like you can move – you’re stuck here for a while, and if you’re stuck here, then I’m stuck here, and if I’m stuck here, then I have to keep moving.  Can’t sit, can’t sit, can’t –“

“Blurr,” Shockwave repeated again, cutting him off.  “I understand how you’re feeling . . .”

“Do you?!” Blurr shrieked, suddenly standing beside Shockwave.  “Tell me how, then, because I don’t understand any of this!”  He was shaking again – too still, too still!  He needed to get out.

Even resting against the wall, Shockwave began to sway heavily, on the verge of collapse.  Frightened for the safety of the one thing in this world he still had, Blurr zipped over to catch him, belatedly realizing that there was no way his frame could support so much weight.  Fortunately, Shockwave was able to catch himself.

“As I was saying,” he continued, as though he hadn’t just threatened to pass out.  “I would like you to check on the space bridge for me, if you’re going to be up and about.  I fear I may have grazed it with that last shot.”

As instructed, Blurr left Shockwave’s side to do so.  He was unfamiliar with the technology, but even  _he_  could tell that Shockwave had done more than graze the thing.  At least he wouldn’t have to sabotage it anymore, though he no longer felt particularly enthusiastic about continuing down that path at this point.  What did it matter if they got off the planet or not?  His life was over wherever he ran to.

“The entirety of the left side has been pulverized.”

“I see,” said Shockwave after an uncomfortable pause.  His voice was strained as he spoke; it drew Blurr’s attention back to him, and filled him with a sudden sense of guilt.  Shockwave probably wanted to get out of here more than anyone.  He was the ultimate outsider in their group, surrounded by bots who wanted him dead, and deprived of the control he tried so hard to maintain every day of his life.  Trapping him here would have been unspeakably cruel, no matter how nicely Blurr tried to spin it.  He really was the worst.

“I’m sorry,” he said, condolences both for things Shockwave knew, as well as those he did not.  “Do you think you’ll be able to fix it?”

“I’m sure I could manage given enough time.  But I may not have to.  I've finished with my communicator; it is on standby to send or receive messages from nearby planets.  Furthermore, I happen to know that Prowl and Jetfire left camp this morning muttering something or other about trying to contact someone on the outside, though how they intended to do this, I cannot say.  Either way, help very well may be on its way.

Guilty as he felt for lying to Shockwave, Blurr still wasn’t certain he wanted help to come.  Depending the identity of their savior, Shockwave could easily wind up with his life on the line all over again, an unacceptable circumstance. Who would Blurr have to kill next time to keep his world safe?  

What he wouldn't give to wake up from this hellish nightmare.

“Oh, okay then.  That’s still good.  The entire universe is against us, but one thing at a time and all that  _hah!”_  he squawked bitterly.

This was pointless.  The room was too small; he couldn’t run properly, even if being in sight of Jazz’s body didn’t make him want to throw himself on his own blade.  But he refused to leave Shockwave alone.  By now, Shockwave was all he had left.  He would not risk losing him.

He needed something to focus on.  Shockwave could provide that, at least.  He was good at it.  In an instant, Blurr was back at the giant's feet, taking in the broken sight before him.

“Your arm is a cannon.”

“Yes,” Shockwave said plain as day, his optic flickering back on in a small smattering of sparks.  “Jazz shoved one of his weapons in there, and I’m afraid I am in no position to dislodge it.”

“I’ll do it then,” Blurr said, skittering closer.  Shockwave gave him a reproachful look, but ultimately offered up his cannon arm.

Blurr’s servos were small when compared with the Decepticon-scaled weapon, but it was still a tight fit.  He was able to get most of his arm into the barrel, an action which pinged every warning in his system regarding proximity to armed Decepticons, not to mention weapon safety.  But what did he care if the cannon went off in his face?  At least he wouldn’t be here with his guilt anymore.

With some effort, he was able to remove the offending weapon, one of Jazz’s nunchucks.  Jazz would be wanting it back, of course.  He should probably hang on to it . . .

A surge of panic overtook him, and he flung the weapon as far as he could with a shout of “No!” repeated again and again and again, as he curled into himself in a trembling mess. 

Jazz deserved what he’d got!  If Blurr had the chance, he’d kill him all over again!  He’d hurt Shockwave!  Tried to kill him!  Even though he knew how much he meant to Blurr – how his death would destroy him.  Jazz had needed to die, and Blurr had no regrets . . .

But . . .

He was only trying to protect the others, wasn't he?  Only doing his job!  What did Blurr's feelings even matter in the grand scheme of things?  Shockwave was a Decepticon, and they, Autobots.  Jazz had been in the right.  He was right, and he hadn't deserved – No!  No, no, no no no no no no no!

Blurr shrieked as he was grabbed from behind and pulled in close to Shockwave, planted against his chest, the claws of Shockwave’s now-reverted hand caging his movements.  He could barely struggle, could do little more than listen to the deep, rhythmic pulsing of Shockwave’s spark.  It was calming as ever, and his own sparkbeat hurried to match it.  He melted against the massive frame at his side, at last at peace.

“I’m sorry, you shouldn’t have to deal with this from me right now.  You’re always taking care of me when I’m hurt – I should be doing the same.”

“I don’t require that you do anything.  It’s enough that I have my hand back, and most of my injuries require some form of invasive repair, I fear, or can be fixed well-enough by internal repairs.  There is little you could do to help.  Though if you are carrying any med grade –“

Blurr pulled the energon from his subspace, handing it over before Shockwave could finish speaking.

“Ah, thank you,” Shockwave said, taking the cube from Blurr’s hands – it looked like a protoform’s plaything when held in those massive claws.  Surely it would not be enough to provide any meaningful assistance.

But Shockwave did not complain.  The cube disappeared behind his mask, reemerging empty.  The action surprised Blurr; he’d never even considered how Shockwave might eat before, though he figured it would’ve been rude to ask.

“Is that enough?  I can’t imagine it would be!  You need more!  But that’s all I have on me right now!  Maybe I could make some?  There’s gotta be something around here, right?”

Shockwave pressed him in tighter – not the  _worst_  way to get his attention.

“This will suffice for now.  I have some more in my subspace.  I need only wait until my access comes back online.”  Just what kind of virus had he been infected with, that could cut off his access to subspace?   _That_  was a scary thought.  He crawled onto Shockwave’s chest, closer to the calming influence of his spark.

“Then surely there’s something else I can do?  There’s gotta be something, right?  What about your antenna?  That looks painful – I’ve broken mine before, and that hurt almost as much as losing a leg!”

Shockwave nodded, a low rumble of agreement emanating from his chest.  “It hurts, yes, but it’s nothing I cannot handle.  The loss of sensation worries me more than the pain.  I should be in a fair bit of trouble if attacked.

“But I’m afraid there’s nothing you can do for it.  The sensory network is complex; basic medical training from the Elite Guard is not enough.  I’d need a mech with a surgeon’s skill.”

“Oh,” Blurr said, feeling a little dejected.  He downcast his eyes, finding himself drawn back to the bright glow of that spark.

Shockwave watched him, blank stare somehow conveying a thoughtful feeling.  “I’d always thought that your antenna was aesthetic.  But what you’ve said just now makes me wonder – does it have any practical application?”

“Hmm?” Blurr returned his attention to Shockwave’s broken optic.  “It can tap in to certain frequencies.  I’ve used it in the past to listen in on private communication networks.”

“Is that so?” Shockwave said.  Blurr suspected he was annoyed with himself for missing such a dangerous detail.  Pit, if Blurr had been disloyal enough to listen in on the messages coming to and from Longarm’s office, Shockwave might’ve been caught well before the situation had come to this.

“Tell me, if I gave you the frequency for my communicator, would you be able to tap into it?”

“Yes Sir.  Easily.”

He suspected that Shockwave would be smiling right now if he’d had a face.  “Excellent.  We shall be able to hear when help comes, and respond accordingly.”

“Provided you’re well enough to move by the time that happens,” Blurr replied, somewhat bitter.  He slid down Shockwave’s chest, moving closer to that alluring spark.

It called to him, begged him to join it, to become one with it.  Shockwave was strong, controlled, even at his worst, and he had the dominating spark of a Decepticon to boot.  Even from the outside, it was able to still his racing thoughts, soothe his panic.  Imagine what it could do from the inside!

But all too soon, it was gone, chest plates creaking back into place to obscure it.

“Neither of us are in any state to make such a decision,” Shockwave said, tapping a claw against the plating of Blurr’s  _own_  chest.  His spark shone brightly from within – when had he opened his spark chamber?

Shockwave continued, softly.  “But I do have every intention of bonding with you.  When the time is right, when we’re not driven by despair, when we’re in full control of our sensibilities, and most importantly, when our future is secured.  A spark bond is forever – I do not wish to throw away either of our futures while we remain in such a state of flux.”

Shockwave was right, of course.  Blurr had saved him once, but the others would surely try to kill him again, and bonded, the destruction of Shockwave’s superior spark would absolutely kill Blurr as well – though that didn’t sound like such a terrible fate, all things considered.  He didn’t want to live without Shockwave anyway.  What  _did_ sound terrifying, however, was the thought of losing Shockwave to his loyalty to Megatron, or discovering that his feelings were mere passing interest caused by desperate circumstances, or even the death of passion.  He could stand behind Shockwave’s decision to not bond just yet.  In the meantime, they would have to find other ways to be close – if ever they found a day when one of them wasn’t dying.

“I understand.  I’m sorry,” he said, snapping his chest plate – the chest plate _Shockwave_ had gifted him with, shut.  “I’m glad that it’s you.” He laughed still manic.

“Excuse me?” Shockwave said, static creeping into his voice.  His optic had shuttered as well.  He was clearly struggling to retain consciousness.  Blurr surely wasn’t helping matters with his blathering.  Shockwave needed the rest, to divert his remaining energy to internal repairs, not conversation.  Blurr could get by for a few hours without him, even if the thought of doing so filled him with dread.  There was just one more thing to say.  Surely that would be all right.

“I mean, the fact that you were a Decepticon spy was pretty awful at first, but you know?  I suppose you’ve opened my optics to things I never would’ve considered before.  You’re a Decepticon, but you’re always so thoughtful, so considerate, caring and wise too.  I’ve never met an Autobot who’s treated me in such a way – we claim to be the good guys, and yet  _you’re_ the only lover I’ve ever had who I could consider spending eternity with, as weird as that sounds, all things considered – I mean, I’ve only known  _you_  you for a few solar cycles now, but deep down, you’re not all that different form Longarm, are you?

“Sorry, I’m rambling, like always.  I suppose what I’m saying is, if I had to betray everything I’ve been taught to trust in, everything I’ve spent my entire life trying to protect – if I am to be cast into the Pit for the terrible things I’ve done, may still do, am probably doing right now, well – then –  I’m glad it was for you.”

Even to his own audials, the confession sounded like the raving of a mech unhinged, but he was too far-gone to care.  Damn it all!

“Anyway, you’ve always taken care of me, so I wanna do the same for you now, and since I’m no medic, the best I can do is to stand guard so you can get some rest.  How does that sound?”  He moved up Shockwave’s chest, gently nuzzling his remaining antenna – Shockwave melted into the touch, full body rumbling with a contented groan.

“It is appreciated.”

It didn’t take long for Shockwave to power down, lost to the depths of a much-needed recharge.

Blurr remained at his side, too revved up to relax.  He’d keep one audial on the cave entrance, ready for any further assailants, and the other open for any incoming calls, offering salvation.  He no longer wanted to stay on this planet – there was no future for him here – only further despair.  But perhaps out there, they still had a chance.

He was destined to be trapped with Shockwave for the rest of his life, however long that may be.  He knew that now.  There was no fighting it, no going back to the innocence of the academy, the naivety of the Elite Guard.  Cliffjumper had been right.  He'd been changed – warped beyond any sense of recognition, by the mech he'd put his blind faith in.  So be it.  Blurr wouldn't have it any other way.  And it was there, in that cold, wretched cave, drowning in despair and madness, that he made a promise to himself.  So long as his spark continued to pulse, so long as there was any fight left in his circuits, so long as the memory of his existence persisted, then he would embrace this twisted paradise, protect it and nurture it with everything he had left.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this officially ends this arc. Everyone is in position. It's showtime! Maybe I'll even manage to stick to the script this time x.x


	38. Dear Bumblebee,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bumblebee finds an old friend in the woods, but this friend is none-too please at this meeting.

Bumblebee had some doubts that Jazz was as good as his word.  He'd done nothing but lie so far – why should he change now?  But there was no fighting it.  If Jazz wanted to give Bumblebee this supposed "mission," then he would – otherwise, Bumblebee would have find some other way to prove himself on his own.  Not that Jazz had any reason to doubt him.  It wasn't like he couldn't handle something like this.  Sure, he was scared, but so was Optimus, and Blurr and Jetfire _both_ were downright mad.  It gave him some degree of comfort knowing that even the Elite Guardsmechs were cracking under the pressure.  He could handle just as much as them, if not more – he just knew it!

In the meantime, it was time to pick up Bulkhead and settle in back at base – spend the evening explaining to Optimus why he ignored three comms, while simultaneously trying to appear useful.  Sentinel wasn't in charge anymore, which meant that Bumblebee and Bulkhead could finally have their chance to shine, or that was the intention.

Trouble was, he was having a bit of trouble _finding_ the guy.  He wasn't where Bumblebee had left him.

"Bulkhead?" he asked into the surrounding wilderness.  "Where'd you go?"

But the forest swallowed his reply, giving no answer in return.

"Bulkhead?"

Had he left?  Why?  Where would he even go?  It wasn't like there was a burning need for them to return to base this instant.  Bulkhead wouldn't just leave him, would he?  He wasn't that kind of a mech!

"If this is some kind of prank, it's not a very good one!" he tried, one more time.

"Izz no prank!"  An unfamiliar voice buzzed back from behind him.

Bumblebee whirled around with a shriek, and came face to face with Bulkhead, or at least part of him.  He was unconscious and stripped of his limbs, energon trickling down his sturdy torso, dribbling onto the ground, while sparks shot out from his torn wires.  Moreover, he was being held aloft – a giant, clawed hand wrapped around his head, effortlessly holding even Bulkheads's massive weight. This was Shockwave, wasn't it?  Forty feet tall, clawed, no face by Cybertronian standards.  Bumblebee was going to die!  _Both_ of them were going to die!  With another scream, he hurled himself backward, landing on the ground with a hard thud.  Shockwave advanced.

"Izz Bumlbebot scared yet?" Bumblebee crawled backwards on the ground, trying to get away.  He even managed to regain his footing long enough to dive out of the way of a massive pede, which harmlessly smashed a log, right where his legs had been nanokliks before.

"What do you want from me?!" he howled, clambering back to his feet and narrowly dodging a swipe from Shockwave's free servo.  "I don't know anything!  I swear!"

"Hmm?"  The monster paused in his assault.  "Wazzpinator not here for _information_.  All Wazzpinator wants is for Bumlbebot to die!"  He punctuated his statement by hurling Bulkhead's unconscious frame at Bumblebee, who barely managed to duck beneath the oncoming dreadnought, leaving him to instead collide with a tree.  It toppled over.

_I'm sorry buddy.  Please be all right!_

With Bulkhead released, Bumblebee was able to take in Shockwave's appearance properly for the first time.  He looked quite the worse for wear – charred plating, most notably, a half-disintegrated, incredibly creepy organic chest plate.  It had probably been shaped like some kind of alien creature in the past, but Primus only knew what it had been at this point.  Along his torso, he had a single vestigial arm, though Bumblebee suspected he'd once had a second to match.  What had _happened_ to this guy?

It belatedly occurred to Bumblebee that Shockwave had said something back there that made no sense, and even fear of the monster couldn't keep him from running his mouth.

"Waspinator?  Who's Waspinator?  Why does he want me dead?!  What did I do?!"

Bumblebee wasn't fast enough to doge the burst of focused energy shot his way; he cried out in pain as it washed over his back plating, melting a hole through the light material, and sending him rocketing forward.

"Bumblebot not remember Wazzpinator?  Wazzpinator hurt.  Maybe Bumblebot needs reminder?"

"Wait," Bumblebee said, turning to face the brute, hoping to stall.  "Are _you_ Waspinator?  I thought you were Shockwave!"

Shockwave (Waspinator?) took a step back, as though offended.  "Wazzpinator is not Shockbot!  Wazzpinator is Wazzpinator!"

"Yeah, that's very helpful."  Even facing down his demise, he could never let go of his greatest crutch – sarcasm.  Waspinator was not amused.

"Waspinator doesn't have to take this from Bumblebot!  Waspinator will have revenge!  Bumblebot izz murderer!  Bumblebot is traitor!  Bumblebot needs to pay!"

Bumblebee was already running away, diving behind a tree the moment he heard the low hum of energy permeating the air, warning of another impending energy attack.  The tree shattered, its canopy crashing down around Bumblebee, nearly crushing him beneath it.  The moment he regained his senses, he was running again, taking cover wherever he could, as Waspinator continued to shoot energy straight from his freakish, clawed servos, destroying a new hiding place each time. 

He growled, an angry buzz that erupted from his vocaliser.  "Bumblebot stop running and take his punishment!"

"I don't even know what I'm being punished for!"  Bumblebee shouted from behind a mossy boulder.  It was holding up rather well under fire.  "I never killed anyone!"

"No?"  Waspinator said, as he ceased his firing.  "What about Ironhide?"

"Huh?"  Ironhide?  Bumblebee had known him, of course – they'd worked in the engine room together.  In fact, he and Wasp had covered Bumblebee's shift after his negligence had gotten himself and Bulkhead in trouble.  But he'd hardly said two words to the guy, let alone _killed_ him.  And how did a Decepticon know about Ironhide anyway?  And why would he care?"

"Yes!  Bumblebot killed Ironhide, just like Bumblebot killed everyone on the Orion.  But now Waspinator kill Bumblebot!"

The sound of footsteps moving through the brush sounded like a charging army after the momentary stillness once Waspinator had stopped firing.  The creature had given up on shooting him, it seemed.  Realizing what was coming, Bumblebee hastened to hurl himself into a nearby ditch, and not a moment too soon; from his new vantage, he could just see the flash of Waspinator's claws reaching behind the boulder.  He felt more exposed here – wet, muddy, and miserable, the underbrush was clinging to his frame like a blanket.  His only chance of survival was to hope that Waspinator mistook him for part of the scenery under so much detritus.  He hated it.

"Where Bumblebot hiding?  Why is Bumblebot such a coward?  Bumblebot should take his punishment!"

For a long moment following, there was only silence.  Waspinator did not move, and Bumblebee remained frozen in place, too afraid to reply.

_Please, just go away._

"Bumblebot is hiding like the coward he is," Waspinator said at last.  "But Wazzpinator can be coward too!  That's why, if Bumblebot doesn't show himself, then Wazzpinator will kill Bulky-bot."

Another blast of energy sang through the air to prove his pint, followed by a pained wail from Bulkhead.  The sound made Bumblebee's spark clench tightly.  He was a coward, true – negligent, childish, self-centered, but Bulkhead was his _best friend._   The bot had stuck his neck out time and again for Bumblebee's sake – Pit, he put up with his scrap on a daily basis.  The bot was practically a saint!  And that was why Bumblebee simply _couldn't_ allow him to die – not for him, not like this.

But he didn't want to die either.  He didn't know why Waspinator hated him, or how he even _knew_ the two of them, but he didn't care.  What kind of Elite Guardsmech would he make if he couldn't find a way out of _this_?

The white noise of a discharging energy weapon hung over their self-made clearing, but it was higher this time – sharper.  With a frantic cry, Bumblebee fired his stingers at Waspinator.

He should have known it would do no good.  Waspinator paused for a moment, stiff, as the electricity made its way through his body, but there was just too much of him, and Bumblebee's stingers couldn't pack the necessary punch.  The beast turned towards him, an unreadable look on his alien features.  

And then he charged.

Despite Blurr's assertions as to otherwise, Bumblebee was fast, and on damaged wings, Waspinator was not.  Thankful that the _thing_ had decided not to shoot at him this time, he took  off, running full speed.  His alt mode would have been faster, but he didn't want to risk losing control on the wild terrain – not now, not when every second counted.

The furious buzzing behind him was his only indication that Waspinator still followed, locked on target.  Why was he so persistent?  Who _was_ he?  And why was he so convinced that Bumblebee was a murderer?  He could search for answers later.  Right now, all that mattered was escaping.

He didn't know how long he ran – half a cycle?  Maybe more?  His chronometer had been glitching since they arrived on this stupid planet.  It was hard to keep track of the passage of time.  All he knew, was that he was at the coast, and had somehow found himself backed against a cliff, Waspinator closing in.  There was nowhere left to run.

"Will Bumblebot die yet?" Waspinator buzzed, a definite hitch in his voice.  It had been quite the workout for them both.

"I don't understand!" Bumblebee persisted, stubbornly.  "I never murdered anyone!  I barely even _knew_ Ironhide!"

Waspinator shot at him mid-sentence, but his aim was wide, merely grazing Bumblebee's shoulder.  It was still enough to hurt.  He cried out, momentarily knocked off his feet by the force of the blast.  No way could he survive another direct hit.  He'd been lucky to live through the first.

"Bumblebot is a bad liar.  And Bumblebot was bad crewman, playing games on duty, letting strange botzez into the engine room.  Or, wazz that all on purpose?!"

"Waspinator, wait –" Bumblebee begged, hoping to stave off another blow.  But something else caught his attention at the sound of the name on his lips. Waspinator knew him , and Bulkhead , it seemed.  Waspinator spoke like he'd worked in the engine room, and was seeking vengeance for Ironhide.  Waspinator.  Wasp – inator.  Wasp . . .

"Wasp?!" he tried, half-certain he was crazy.  Wasp was a diminutive Autobot, no bigger than Bumblebee, with a good head on his shoulders, a cocky attitude, and a definite dislike for a certain yellow compact.  Of all of those qualities, Waspinator shared only one.  There was no way this _thing_ was his former crewmate!

"Ahhhh, Bumblebot figures it out!  But that will not save the Bumblebot, oh no!  Wazzpinator knows why Bumlbebot was always playing his games in the engine room.  Yessssss.  Wazzpinator knows."

The conspiratorial way in which he spoke was completely lost on Bumblebee.  Just what was that supposed to mean?!  Bumblebee played games because he was bored . . . and also because he was a bit of a slacker.  Clearly, he was missing something.

But it didn't seem to matter whether Bumblebee understood or not.  Once again, he was being deemed guilty for a crime he hadn't committed, and again, the penalty was death.

Waspinator was preparing to fire again.  Bumblebee had two choices: either he could take the blast and die, or he could jump into the rocky ocean below and _probably_ die.  Well, one of those was the clear choice.

Before Waspinator had the chance to shoot, Bumblebee turned away, and with one final burst of speed, he leapt from the cliff, hoping that his light frame being smashed against the rocks below wouldn't hurt _too_ much.

~~~

Bumblebee came to in more pain than he'd ever experienced in his short life.  In addition to the hole in his canopy, internal diagnostics helpfully informed him that he was missing several fingers from one servo, and the other servo was gone altogether.  Both of his legs were functioning at about fifty percent capacity, a chunk of his helm had been torn away, leaving parts of his processor dangerously exposed, his chest plating had caved in, the metal pressed uncomfortably against his spark chamber, Pit, there wasn't a part of him that wasn't dented, bleeding, or otherwise ripped open.  Moreover, his left audial was completely offline, and the corresponding optic was functioning at a mere twenty percent.  Oh yes, and his comms were offline.  Perfect.

He'd washed up in a dark and rocky cove, which seemed to have collected a small assortment of junk, much of it alien debris, grey metal, the color of death.  He didn't want to think about the horrifying implications of how that had gotten here, or _who_ it had been.  He was too busy being frozen, drenched, weak and hurting, but at least he was alive.  That was a good thing, right?  He'd faced down a Decepticon (?) and lived to tell about it.

But even now, he knew he'd have to go back.  Bulkhead was still up there, maybe in trouble.  Even if Waspinator didn't decide to kill him, he at least needed some medical attention.  Wounds like those weren't fatal, true, but it had hurt to see Bulkhead so vulnerable, having lost so much, and ultimately it was because of him – because he'd left Bulkhead alone, because he'd angered that buggy maniac.  Even now, he didn't know how he'd managed that.

Wasp couldn't have been this upset over Bumblebee shirking his duties for some _Cyberninja Gladiator_ , no matter how much of an asshole he was.  Unless he thought that Bumblebee had been too busy playing video games to notice Jetfire plant a bomb in one of the engines.  Please!  Even _he_ wasn't so unobservant as to let someone commit an act of terrorism while he was in the room.

Besides, Jetfire and Jetstorm had deliberately lured him out, and it had been Sentinel's idea to plant the bomb in the first place!  So he wasn't to blame at all! But what did it matter?  Wasp wasn't going to listen to reason.  He'd keep coming after him, until Bumblebee was dead.

He was pulled from his fevered fretting by a ping from his comm, which was especially odd, because his system diagnostics registered it as offline.  Was he glitching?  He supposed it wouldn't hurt to answer, at least. 

As it turned out, the comm was from Jazz, of all bots.  Great.  Jazz _would_ give him that special mission when he could barely sit upright – but if he passed this time, Jazz would never give him another chance.  He took the call.

"Hey Jazz," he croaked, voice heavily laced with static.  "I'm here and ready for more action."  There was no way Jazz would fall for the obvious lie.

But Jazz didn't answer.  In fact, all Bumblebee could received over the commlink was a heavy static laced with high frequency feedback, which he quickly cut off.  Evidently, his diagnostics had been right about his comm.  But somehow, despite malfunctioning hardware, a message did manage to slip through to plant itself on his HUD.  What was going on here?

Even more peculiar, the message had been composed several cycles before it was sent, at least according to Jazz's timestamps.  This was just one more oddity to compound with the rest.  Of course, all his questions were answered upon reading the first line.

_"Dear Bumblebee, if you are reading this message, then I am dead.  My bad."_

What?  What kind of a sick joke was this?!  Hadn't Jazz hurt him enough?  But even now, his earlier words echoed in bumblebee's mind.

_Well, hopefully it won't come to that . . . if it does, then that means everything's gone horribly wrong._

Was this it, then?  Jazz had given him a dying mission – had trusted him so much.  This was so fragged up!

His spark was pounding in his chest, his circuits burning, his head a colorful explosion of agony, and that was to say nothing of the rest of him.  He didn't need this right now, one more trauma to add to  his growing list.  He was beginning to see where Blurr and Jetfire were coming from.  He could already feel himself going mad – feared that one more trauma could take him over the line.  He couldn't deal with it, and he _definitely_ couldn't deal with the loss of Jazz.  He was a miserable lying fragger, but Bumblebee had loved him – still did.  Even now, he wanted to make him proud, to prove that he was good enough to warrant Jazz's affections, his respect. 

But what if he couldn't?  What if he failed, after Jazz had believed in him?

It took all of his remaining strength to keep his mind focused on the words scrawling themselves across his HUD.

 _"I knew what I was getting into.  I got no regrets.  But I can't allow what I know to die with me, and you made a good case for yourself.  You're as trustworthy as anybot, and damned if anybot's gonna expect me to pass something like this to_ you."

He should've been offended by the implication that he was untrustworthy, but it was true, and Jazz was dead, and his mind was far too groggy to care about such things, so he let it slide, just this once.

_"First and foremost, Longarm Prime is Shockwave, and to be honest, he probably found out that I knew, hence why I'm dead now.  Don't let on that you know anything, especially not to Blurr.  I think he's on the level, but he's also a bit unstable when it comes to Longarm.  Best not press him too hard, yeah?"_

Bulkhead had told him that Longarm was under suspicion, and from that moment on, he'd had no doubts that Longarm Prime was Shockwave.  This news didn't come as a surprise to him.  Had Jazz really died for it?

_"Next up: the space bridge.  Shockwave and his spider friend, Blackarachnia, are building one together, in a cave at the included coordinates, but the two of them ain't all that tight – Blurr's a point of contention for them, but apparently, Ms. Spider also used to be tight with Optimus, which Shockwave don't like.  Boss Prime's probably more reasonable than Blurr, but be careful with this info anyway._

_"Speaking of Blackarachnia, she's a bit of a mystery.  I haven't figured out how she got to this planet yet, but it may be worth finding out.  She's stuck here at the very least.  Also, she seems to have an associate named Waspinator.  I have no idea as to his origins – if he came here with Blackarachnia, or what, but I do know that he's huge, powerful, and unpredictably violent.  Be careful."_

_That_ sure would have been nice to know beforehand.  His plating trembled beneath the weight of his anger.  If this had been a data tablet, and had he any strength in his remaining servo, he would have thrown it against the wall.  Jazz was dead, and Bulkhead might be dead, and he too, had almost died, and Bumblebee had been clueless as to why – Jazz had known, and hadn't bothered to warn him!  He wished that Jazz was still alive, so he could punch him.  And then hold him tight and never let go.  That fragging asshole!

_"Next order of business: Prowl  His backstory's complicated, but I'll tell you what I can._

_"Guy was a street mech, and got in with some bad folk – got himself bonded to one mech in particular, apparently was part of some kind of bot trafficking ring, from what I managed to gather – pretty shady stuff.  Anyway, for one mission, the two of them were to worm their way into Master Yoketron's dojo, steal the protoforms he cared for within, and sell them to their benefactor._

_"Long story short, Prowl had a falling out with his buddy, who killed Yoketron and took off with the protoforms._

_"But somehow, and I don't know how, unless there was a mole in the crew, Prowl's friend caught wind of the quantum engines on the Orion, and offered a trade: the protoforms for a few engine cores._

_"Prowl agreed, and early on in the journey, swapped the cores with decoys, which, Bulkhead tells me, destabilized the engines after jumping, but not enough to destroy 'em._

_"I'd thought that Sentinel's bomb had been the catalyst to set them off, but he'd commissioned it from Wheeljack specifically to not work, and when I checked it out, it was disarmed.  Either our supposed mole made a little switcheroo at some point, or something else caused that explosion.  That, I do not know, and the only folk who might, died at ground zero._

_"Whatever the case, know that, while Prowl lost one of the cores when we crashed, he still has at least one more tucked away somewhere, though he ain't sayin' where._

_"Despite all this, I think we can trust him.  Currently, he and Jetfire are trying to contact his ex-conjunx on the outside.  Let him do this.  Could be our only chance off this rock, if we fail to secure the space bridge._

_"Anyway, I think that's just about it.  Where to go from here is up to you.  You're a good kid, Bumblebee, and even if it wasn't romantic, I really did enjoy our time together.  You got a good head, and you're way more resilient than I think even_ you _realize.  I've given you everything I know.  What you choose to do with it is up to you; I know you'll make good use of it.  You're gonna get outta this mess.  I promise._

_"Anyway, It's been real, Little Bee.  Take care, and know that, wherever my journey leads me from here, I'll be missin' you._

_"-Jazz"_

Bumblebee stared at the message on his HUD blankly, his mind a haze of anger, sorrow, numbness.

Jazz was gone, another of his friends taken from him by this stupid island.  And it had happened because he'd dared try to escape – dared to make an effort to save the lot of them from dying in this miserable place.  And now Bumblebee was meant to take the torch, had just been handed the very information that had damned Jazz to his fate.

He could keep it to himself.  Jazz was right.  In the end, no one _would_ suspect that he held such vital information.  If he never shared it, then he could keep his life off the line – let Prowl get them off the planet, and no one would ever need to be the wiser.  Or maybe Optimus would figure a way out.  The point was, it wasn't gonna be him!  He was done with death!

But even as he thought this, he knew that he couldn't do nothing.  Jazz had trusted him with this information, and Bumblebee wasn't about the allow it to be for naught.  Besides, so long as Waspinator was convinced that the was to blame for the destruction of the Orion, then he'd never truly be safe.

Wait . . .

What was that Jazz had said about the Orion – about a catalyst?  The bomb _they_ knew about might not have been _the_ bomb  after all?  And only Wasp and Ironhide knew what had happened?  And Waspinator had been so focused on Bumblebee's games.  Bumblebee _had_ been playing _Cyberninja Gladiator_ earlier that day – the day of the catastrophe.  He'd even left it in the engine room . . .

_No way._

No way!  Bumblebee had _not_ brought a bomb onto the ship!  And even if he _had,_ he sure as the pit hadn't know about it!  If anything, it was the fault of the aft who had given it to him.  The guy had been a total sleazeball, but even _that_ couldn't keep Bumblebee from saying 'yes' to a free game tablet.

In retrospect, this all seemed terribly plausible, in a way that he didn't like one bit, but not for the unfortunately light in which it painted him.  Rather, it was how it painted the late Sentinel Prime.

  Sentinel, who had been drowning in enough guilt to kill Cliffjumper, would be innocent, by this theory, and  Bumblebee didn't want to believe it.  The bot had been pure evil!  How could the ship have been destroyed by anyone else?!

But no!  The guilty parties here were Prowl and _probably_ that creep from Maccadam's.  It was unfathomable!

Still, whether he believed it or not, that didn't change the fact that he had information that no one else did, and he needed to do something with it.

Bulkhead needed help – well, _he_ needed help too – the world was a half-blurred fog, and he highly doubted he'd be able to get out of this damp nightmare of a place anytime soon, but Bulkhead was more important right now.  He would grit his dentae and force his way back to the forest, back to the others if he had to _roll_ there in _root_ _mode_!  For Bulkhead's sake.  Hopefully his comm would come back online by that point too.  Maybe.

But even if he _could_ make it back to Bulkhead, there was still a stronglikelihood that Waspinator was with him, and Bumblebee was in _no_ condition to fight him, even at peak condition.  But maybe Optimus could. 

Optimus was strong, of course, resourceful and well-trained, but more than that, he had been their captain.  Maybe, deep down, Waspinator would remember this, and be inclined to obey.  Optimus could tell him what had really happened – get him to stop trying to kill Bumblebee.  Provided Bumblebee's guess was even right.  Surely it was!  And what better solution was there than this?

And so, cold and wet and scared out of his mind, Bumblebee crawled to his feet, whimpering the entire way, and began to limp towards the rocky hill ahead.  Climbing back up would be difficult with his servos as they were, but the hill wasn't so steep as for it to be impossible.  He had to do it.  Just as he had to march onwards from there, find Optimus, and then Waspinator and Bulkhead, save the day, and get everyone off the island.  Jazz had trusted him, and Bulkhead was counting on him.  He couldn't let them down.

He just hoped that luck would be with him this time, because he in _way_ over his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they all died sadly ever after . . .  
> Dayum, I feel kinda bad about doing that to poor Bulkhead.


	39. Despair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spurred on by his immense losses, Optimus feels he's on the verge of a breakdown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went to a Beast Wars marathon this weekend, so yeah - Blackarachnia and Waspinator are still very much stuck with those personalities. (How does Waspinator even talk?)

Never had Optimus imagined that he would meet Elita-1 again, least of all on some nowhere planet in a far-off corner of the galaxy, alive and well and a techno-organic Decepticon, apparently.  She was going to have to explain that to him, later perhaps, once he’d managed to sort through all of the other madness of his current situation.

Right now, he had to focus on finding Bumblebee and Bulkhead, a task that would be much easier if either of them would bother answering their comms.

“Optimus to Bulkhead, come in.”  Nothing. 

“They didn’t answer the first six times, what makes you think they’ll answer on the seventh?” Blackarachnia asked, clinging to the bed of his truck as they zipped over the uneven terrain.

“Unless you have a better way of tracking them down, this is the best option I've got, short of tearing apart the entire island.”

“Well,” she said slowly, as if working her way through to a solution herself.  “I  _might._ ”

“Might?”

“I installed a tracer on Waspinator, just in case something like this happened,” she explained.

“Okay,” he said, “and why is that a ‘might?’”

“Because it seems to have taken some damage when he got shot.  I can’t get a solid read on it – the signal’s weak, and keeps on flickering in and out.  Yup, and there it goes.”

It was funny how little he reacted to the statement.  He'd only just found out that Wasp was still alive, and now he was finding out that Wasp had been shot.  Oh well – that was his life now.  Who could dwell on such minutia?  At the moment, the tracer was more important.  He sighed, a deep putter of his engine. “It’s still the only lead we got.  Direct me to those last coordinates, and let’s hope he stays where he is.”

They drove onwards in an awkward silence for a few minutes, with Blackarachnia occasionally interrupting to give him directions.  But their destination was still a ways off, and Optimus had questions in need of answers.  Eventually, his curiosity got the better of him.

“So here’s a question for you,” he said, as they began to climb a hill; he could feel Blackarachnia's small hands tighten their hold on him.  “Wasp was in the engine room on my ship when it exploded.  How did he wind up here?”

“I believe that’s a question for Waspinator.  Pretty sure I’ve told you this before, but I’ll say it again, since you probably don’t remember.  Some six deca-cycles back, my instruments detected some severe energy fluctuations, and I decided to investigate.  What I found was your friend, on the beach, delirious and half-dead, and having an incoherent conversation with some dead bot whose identity eludes me. 

“The kid took to me easily enough, but a quick scan showed that he’d taken severe damage to both his spark and brain module.  Without intervention, he would slowly decay and die, and well – call me a soft-spark, but after spending half a vorn all alone in the middle of an alien planet, I was starting to get a little lonely, so I took him in.

“I didn’t have the ability to fix his wounds, but I  _did_  have some experimental technology I’d been working on prior to my arrival, so I took a chance and, lo and behold, Waspinator.  Managed to save his life, but – I mean, he seems to have turned out a bit – well, deranged.  Oh well.”

“Oh well?” Optimus growled.  “This is a bot’s life you’re talking about, here!”

“And it’s thanks to me that he even lives at all.  You just don’t come back from the kind of damage he’d undergone.  Honestly, I can’t say whether his current state of mind is even a result of what  _I_  did to him, or if he was already on his way out.”

This was a debate that Optimus didn’t want to get into right now.  Blackarachnia’s words were logical, but that didn’t make the situation any less upsetting.  He thought of his own mechs – the ones whose sparks still beat on, but with heavy damage suffered unto them.  If –  _when_  they at last found their way home, would Jetfire ever recover?  Would Blurr?  He needed to think of something else.

“You said he arrived six deca-cycles ago, but we arrived more recently.  How can this be, if he was on my ship?”

“A good question,” she answered.  “One that I’ve been wondering myself, ever since Shockwave brought it up.  I have two hypotheses.”

“Yes?”

“The first: the destruction of your physics-defying quantum engines – yes, I know about those,” she said with a haughty sneer, as if her knowledge was some kind of joke.  It was infuriating!  The engines were supposed to be a secret between Wheeljack and the engineers.   _Optimus_  barely knew about them!  Though apparently he was the only one.

“I won’t ask,” he said, giving up.

“Yes, well, as I was saying, if those engines blew up, then there’s a chance that they caused some sort of large-scale temporal disturbance.  Time would be rendered meaningless, and thus, despite falling into the theoretical rift merely kliks apart, you could come out at any time.”

“Okay,” he said.  Optimus didn’t understand how any of this worked, but he figured that Blackarachnia knew what she was talking about.  “And what’s the other hypothesis?”

“It’s a bit less likely, I’ll admit, but if we’ve already thrown time travel into the mix, then we might as well take it to its logical conclusion.

“There are no reports of successful time travel, so all we have to work from are pervasive theories.  Either the past can be changed, the past  _can’t_  be changed, or the act of time travel itself causes a dimensional split, wherein the new timeline exists in a parallel dimension to the old.”

“And what does this have to do with Wasp?”

“If the last is true, then he  _could_  have come from an alternate timeline wherein he wasn’t caught at the center of the explosion.  Though while a fun notion, I’m fairly certain that the first is true.”

This was all going over Optimus’s head.  Apparently time travel was a thing now, though he supposed that it was not without precedent.  It had happened to Blurr already, hadn't it?  On their first day on-planet, if Jazz’s theory about the organic graveyard had been correct.  What a headache.  New subject.

“Okay.  I’ve got another question for you then.  How did  _you_  wind up here?”

He heard Blackarachnia chuckle from behind him.  “That  _is_  the question, isn’t it?”

“You mean you don’t know?”

“Something like that.”  Wasn't _that_ dodgy?

“But you’ve got a guess.”

She laughed again.  “I would’ve thought you’d want to know how I survived, or why I look like this now, or what made me want to become a Decepticon.”

The indirect way in which she avoided the question rubbed Optimus the wrong way.  What was she hiding?  “I do,” Optimus said, hesitant.  “Believe me, I do.  But to the here and now, I feel this is the bigger question.  You said you’ve been alone here for half a vorn.  Why did no one come to get you?  Where’s your ship?  If you got here on your own, then maybe we could leave in the same way.”

"Unlikely," Blackarachnia said, hesitation creeping into _her_ voice this time.  "If it was that easy, I would've gotten out of here ages ago.  But if you're gonna keep pestering me about it, I'll just tell you.  I was in the midst of an experiment.  We were attacked, I grabbed what I could, and tried to get out, but – well – lab exploded – yadda yadda transwarp energy – yadda yadda, here I am.”

The incredible vagueness aside, something about her story didn’t sit well with Optimus.  “You were . . . attacked?  Your  _lab_  was?  Half a vorn ago?  But we’re at peace!”

“You may be a Prime,” she laughed, though the sound was nervous, “but you sure are a dumb one.  Clearly there’s no written exam.”

“Excuse me?”

“Do you  _really_  believe that the Autobots don’t stage attacks on Decepticon threats, peace or no peace?  Why do you think the Elite Guard even exists?

“But –“

“We’re almost there; we’ll talk more later.  And I promise, I’ll be sure to tell you the story of how I became part spider next time.  It’s a  _real_  tearjerker.”

Optimus didn’t want the conversation to be over, but saving Bumblebee and Bulkhead was the priority.  She was right.  Though he had the strangest hunch that Blackarachnia was deliberately changing the subject to keep him from prying into the things she'd left unsaid.  If there was, in fact, a next time, he'd be sure to keep on digging until he found out what those things were.  In the meantime, there was work to do.

“We’ll walk from here,” he said, giving Blackarachnia a chance to climb down before reverting to root mode.  They kept moving forward, towards Waspinator’s last-marked coordinates.  Despite her allegations of slowing them down earlier, Blackarachnia kept pace pretty well.

Optimus knew they were in the right place when they found the clearing, still-smoking trees strewn in pieces across the ground – indicating a recent battle.  There was no sign of Waspinator, though that could have meant anything.  Optimus drew his axe and prepared for the worst.

“Isn’t that one of your friends over there?” Blackarachnia asked, casually point to a big, green hunk of metal on the ground.  Bulkhead.

He lay motionless, limbless and bleeding, his vents coming in heavy, his thick plating rattling as he struggled to remain conscious.

“Optimus,” he groaned.  “Is that you?”

“Yes,” Optimus confirmed, kneeling down to get closer to his level, and placing a gentle hand on that rotund chest.

“Yeesh, what happened to you?” Blackarachnia added with a disgusted sneer.

“Who is that?”  Bulkhead struggled to sit up and take a look, but he just couldn’t manage, at last collapsing bonelessly back to the ground.

“This is Blackarachnia,” Optimus answered.  “She’s an old friend of mine.”

“Begrudging ally,” Blackarachnia said simultaneously, ignoring the confused glance Optimus shot her.  Blackarachnia continued.  “I’m the infamous spider that everyone’s been talking about.  But don’t worry, I won’t bite – now, anyway.

“Give me your med kit,” she said suddenly, holding an expectant servo out to Optimus.

“What?”

“Bulkhead here is  _clearly_  in need of medical attention, and you said you don’t know much about medicine.  Figured I’d do something nice – just this once.  Now, med kit.”

He passed it over with no further protestation, though his optics kept a close watch on her.  He still wasn’t sure he could trust the spider, least of all with her past history in genetic experimentation, and Bulkhead so vulnerable.

“Had a run-in with Waspinator, didn’t you?” she said as she worked.  “Where did the rest of you go?”

“I got jumped,” he groaned.  “I blacked out for most of it – I don’t know.  I think he wanted to get at . . . Bumblebee!”  Again, he shifted about in a piteous wiggle, desperately trying to sit up.  “Where’s Bumblebee?!”

“Hold still, will you?” Blackarachnia snapped, jerking the torch she held back towards herself.  “Doing delicate work right here.”

“But Bumblebee’s –“

“Probably dead, if Waspinator went after him.  Kid didn’t look like much of a survivor.”

Bulkhead held his tongue, but  _did_  do his best to shoot Blackarachnia a bitter glare.

“Trouble is,” she said with a change of subject, stepping away from Bulkhead, “while I could reattach your limbs just fine, I have no idea what Waspinator did with them.  How exactly are we supposed to move this guy around?  He’s no minicon.”

Bulkhead’s answer was an offended groan, but Blackarachnia  _did_  have a point.  Optimus was a strong bot – he could have carried any other member of their team with ease – Pit, he already  _had_  carried most of them at some point or another.  But Bulkhead was more than twice his size.  He was just too big.

“Do you still have wheels, Bulkhead?” Optimus asked.

“Yeah.   _He_  took two, but I still got four more.  Driving like that might be difficult, but if I try hard enough, I think I can manage.”

“Transform then, and I’ll fix you like that,” Blackarachnia said.  “It’ll suck for a few days, but it’s better than the alternative.”

The look on Bulkhead’s face was one of absolute dread, but at a nod from Optimus, he did as he was told, transforming to alt mode, accompanied by the painful shriek of broken gears and tearing metal as his mangled body made the change.

All things considered, Bulkhead had gotten off easy.  He was missing his front axle along with accompanying wheels, and the majority of his trailer stood as a distorted mess, but he still retained the majority of his alt mode – a small blessing amongst all of the misfortune.

Blackarachnia was back at work right away, this time sans commentary, and Bulkhead too, had lost the will to be defiant.  For several kliks, all that was heard in the clearing was the hiss of a torch, the whir of a drill, the clang of a hammer, as Blackarachnia operated.

Despite the near silence, Optimus didn’t notice the encroaching sound of buzzing until it was nearly on top of them.  The others too, fell into the same trap, mistaking the ever-nearer noise for forest ambience.  Upon their joint realization, Blackarachnia put away her tools and stepped away from Bulkhead.

“This will have to do for now, kiddo.  Looks like we got trouble.”

“Bumblebee?” Bulkhead suggested, voice so full of hope that Optimus didn’t dare dash it.  Blackarachnia, however, had no such reservations.

“Guess again.”

Before the words had finished leaving her mouth, Waspinator was bursting into the clearing – knocking over a few more trees with his arrival.

It was difficult to imagine that this beast was the same cocky little overachiever that had served on his crew just a lunar cycles, or so, prior, at least from Optimus’s perspective.  Waspinator was even more distinct an entity from Wasp than Blackarachnia had been from Elita-1.  The drastic change in size and addition of numerous organic qualities were one thing – even taking into account the brutal injuries, but Waspinator’s demeanor was completely unrecognizable.  It was clear just by looking at him, that the bot he’d known before was  _long_  gone.

Reading emotions on that alien face was no easy task, but if Optimus had to guess, he’d say that the bug looked surprised.  Turned out, he wasn’t so far from the mark.

“Ahh!  Spider Lady and Optimusss Prime are here now!  But Wazzzpinator only left Bulky bot!”

“Where’s Bumblebee?” Bulkhead growled, in a voice Optimus had never expected to hear from such an ordinarily docile mech.

“Bumblebot is dead.  Wazzzpinator is agent of justice!  All debts are paid!”

Optimus felt as though the world had been pulled out from under him.  The idea that anyone could die at this point, Bumblebee included, was not new to him, but it was  _Bumblebee_!  The kid was irritating, yes, but he was also young, lively, innocent!  He’d done nothing to warrant such a horrific fate, and even now, after losing so much, Optimus couldn’t believe that he was gone.

Evidently, neither could Bulkhead.

“You’re lying!  Bumblebee’s not dead!” he howled, engine revving dangerously, though he remained unmoving.  “Where is he?!”

The sound of Waspinator’s buzzing changed, taking on what could best be described as a cheery quality. 

“But Bumblebot  _is_  dead!  Wazzpinator chase Bumblebot off cliff – into rocky ocean below.  Bumblebot is no more!  Justice is served.”

“You keep saying that,” Opitmus said, stepping in before Bulkhead could retaliate.  The last thing he wanted right now was for someone else to die.  “Talking about justice.  What do you mean?”

“What Wazzpinator means is that Bumblebot was traitor!  It not accident that destroyed Orion ship, but Bumblebot!”

Optimus and Bulkhead alike let out sounds of outrage and indignation, and even Blackarachnia sounded surprised.

“You’re lying,” Bulkhead roared, at the same time that Optimus asked, “What do you mean?”  It was Optimus that Waspinator chose to pay attention to.

“Wazzpinator tell Optimus Prime.  The Optimus Prime knows that Wazzzzpinator is true hero!”

The notion of Bumblebee as a traitor was unthinkable, but if Optimus had learned anything from his tenure on the island, it was how to listen.

“Wazzpinator in engine room with Ironhide, just as Optimus Prime orders!  Ironhide sees Bumblebot’s game on ground – says Bumblebot is sloppy and irresponsible!  Wazzpinator agrees.

“Ironhide picks up game, to put away, but suddenly, game explodes in Ironhide’s face!  Engines stutter!  Wazzzzzzzpinator terrified!  Tries to help Ironhide, but suddenly, engines are imploding – and Wazzpinator falls into wormhole – next thing Wazzzpinator knows, Wazzpinator is on  _luxurious_  island beach, and Ironhide is there, but Ironhide is dead, and Spider Lady is there, and then Wazzpinator is hurting and angry, and now Wazzzpinator is here – no longer hurting and angry!”

It was a little difficult to understand everything, given Waspinator's unique manner of speech, but Optimus felt he got the gist of things.  Could it have been true?  He’d known very little of Bumblebee’s background when he’d brought him aboard the Orion, beyond the fact that he and Bulkhead had been friends their entire lives.  Bulkhead had vouched for Bumblebee, but it was clear by now that Bulkhead hadn’t displayed his best judgment when doing so.  And while Bumblebee came off as innocent – incompetent even, it all very well  _could_  have been an act.  Even so, it was difficult to imagine Bumblebee intentionally sabotaging the ship.  Besides . . .

“It’s not true!  It was Sentinel Prime that planted the explosives!  He admitted to it!” Bulkhead protested with an increasing panic.

But Waspinator was unconvinced, tilting his head, quizzically.  “There were bombs in engine number three.  Ironhide and Wazzpinator find them while making rounds – call Elite Guard for help.  Jazzy Bot comes and say they are disabled – nothing to fear.  Wazzpinator and Ironhide wait for Sentinel Prime to dispose of explosives.  But explosion didn’t come from the engines!  Explosion comes from Bumblebot’s toy!”

Again, Optimus was taken aback.

It was clear from his behavior, that Sentinel had been under the impression that his misguided bombs had destroyed the ship.  Had he been mistaken?  Had Cliffjumper’s death been for nothing?  Sentinel’s?  Jetstorm’s?  Optimus thought he would be sick.

“But no!” Bulkhead snapped, still refusing to believe his audials.  But deranged or not, Waspinator was the only bot to have seen what happened.  Not a soul could refute his claims.  “I’m the one that brought the game to the engine room!  So if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine!  Besides, the two of us played with that thing all the time!  If it was a bomb, then  _we_  would’ve been the ones to find out!”

“Not necessarily,” Blackarachnia finally chimed in.  “He could’ve had a trigger, or it could’ve been on a timer.  Guess your friend wasn’t so innocent as he looked.”

“It’s not true!” Bulkhead continued to protest.  “Bumblebee would never!  It’s my fault, not his!”  His deep engine revved again, and Optimus feared he would try something stupid.  He needed to de-escalate this . . . somehow.

“Wasp – Waspinator, as Autobots, we do not approve of vigilante justice, which is exactly what you’ve done here.  Your story has given us a new perspective on what’s happened, but I can also see alternative explanations.  Bumblebee may have been a victim of circumstance, just as the rest of us are, but now we will never know.”

Waspinator said nothing as he was lectured, choosing to instead stare at Optimus with those piercing purple optics, and cock his head the other way with a soft buzz.

“Therefore, I’m afraid you’ve left me no choice but to carry out justice myself.  Waspinator, under the power vested in me by Ultra Magnus, you are under arrest.”

From the corner of his optic, he caught Blackarachnia’s look of baffled derision, but he paid it no mind, for Waspinator seemed to be considering the words.  It didn't stop her from voicing her opinion anyway.

“Are you kidding?!” she hissed, softly.  “A creature like that needs to be put down, for his sake  _and_  ours!  He’s powerful, unpredictable – he’s already killed one of your friends, and he’s crippled another!  Not to mention the fact that we have no  _good_  way of keeping a prisoner right now!  You’re nuts!”

“Maybe,” Optimus agreed, “but I also know that I am  _done_  with death.  We’re going to do this right.  I’m not Sentinel – I don’t  _want_  to be Sentinel.  Sentinel’s way of doing things is the reason we’re in this mess in the first place.  We’re trying things  _my_  way now.”

Blackarachnia looked like she wanted to protest, but Waspinator beat her to it.

“Wazzpinator not Autobot,” he mumbled, pointing to the half-charred symbol on his chest.  “But Waspinator like Optimus Prime – more than Wazzzpinator like Spider Lady.  So Wazzpinator will go with Optimus Prime.”

Optimus was surprised – had to fight the urge to let out a triumphant cheer.  He’d won Waspinator over without raising a hand to fight him.  It was better than he ever could have predicted.

Of course, not everyone agreed.

“You’re going to let him get off scott free?!  After what he did to Bumblebee – after what he did to  _me?!”_  Bulkhead exploded, inching forward on unstable wheels.

“Bulkhead, this is no different than the situations with Prowl or Jetfire.”

“But he’s actually  _guilty_!” Bulkhead bellowed.  “Prove to me that he’s not!”

“Bulkhead, this isn’t up for debate.”

But Bulkhead wasn’t listening.  “Prove it!  Prove that he didn’t kill Bumblebee!  I’ve been trying to comm him, and I get nothing!  Bumblebee’s dead!  He killed him!  Prove that he didn’t!  Prove it!  Prove it and I'll accept your decision!”

“Oh dear,” Blackarachnia sneered from behind Optimus.  “You try to do one good deed, and look what happens.”

“Not helping,” Optimus growled, trying to comm Bumblebee himself to no avail.  How had everything gone south so quickly?

“Bulky bot want proof that Wazzpinator killed traitor, Bumblebot?  Wazzpinator can provide proof.  Wazzzpinator show Bulky Bot and Optimuzzzzz Prime cliff where Bumblebot fallz to his death.”

Optimus knew this to be a terrible idea.  Bulkhead was unstable enough as it was, Waspinator had just barely been lulled into a tentative complacence.  The last thing he needed was a reason for either of them to be dragged over the edge.  But on the other hand . . .

He’d thought Elita-1 dead, but here, she lived on, and Wasp too.  Despite Waspinator’s declarations, there was a part of Optimus that would not believe Bumblebee dead until he saw a body.  Grim as it was, if Waspinator showed him proof of Bumblebee's death, then perhaps he would be able to let go.  And if he couldn’t – well, then maybe the little guy lived on as well – maybe Optimus could save  _him_  where he’d failed the others.

“All right then,” said Optimus, to the surprise of Bulkhead and Blackarachnia.

“Optimus!” Bulkhead cried out, a confused mix of relief and apprehension.  Blackarachnia, meanwhile, was less pleased.

“Have you fried a circuit?!  First you want to arrest him, now you want to follow him to the edge of a sharp and rocky cliff?”  And then, in a lower voice, she added, “Please tell me you’re not letting torso boy over there come with you.  No way  _that’s_  ending well.”

“Nor would leaving him alone, or even with you.  We all stick together from now on.”

“Ugh, I forgot how headstrong you were.  In case you’ve forgotten,  _I’m_  not obligated to follow you.  If I want to leave, then I’m leaving.”

“Then leave,” Optimus snapped.  What was he doing?  For one thousand stellar cycles, he’d dreamed of this – dreamed he’d have a second chance to make things right with Elita, dreamed that he hadn’t gotten her killed.  And here she was – alive and well, and he was turning her away.  What had changed?

He didn’t want to know the answer, and he didn’t want to face down Blackarachnia – face down his first and biggest mistake – not right now.  What he wanted was to resolve the issue with Bumblebee, and get on with his failure of a life.

He marched purposefully towards Waspinator, pulling out a pair of stasis cuffs from his sub-space – Waspinator willingly allowed them to be fastened in place.  Next, he transformed to alt mode, extending his grappling hook, and fastening it beneath Bulkhead’s bumper, to tow him along.  “Lead the way, Waspinator.”

Reaching the cliff had taken longer than he’d thought it would – a little more than half a cycle of rough terrain and unpleasant company.  At least no one was arguing.  Bulkhead sullenly sulked as Optimus dragged his broken chassis across the bumpy forest floor, Blackarachnia, seated in his truck bed, contemplated some deep thought or another, and Waspinator too, said no words as his feet shuffled loudly through the underbrush.  What a mess.

But at last, the edge of the world came into sight.  Waspinator, under the effects of the stasis cuffs, stumbled drunkenly to the ledge, offering a heavy, “This is the place,” as he gazed into the ocean below.

One quick warning to Blackarachnia later, Optimus was reverting to root mode, and following in Waspinator’s footsteps, albeit with a bit more caution.

“Back down,” Optimus commanded, and Waspinator obeyed, giving Optimus plenty of space to investigate the crime scene.  It was all too easy to imagine Bumblebee backed against the cliff’s edge, torn between facing an impending death at Waspinator’s claws, or taking his chances in the sea below.  He must have been so scared.

Steeling his tanks against the sudden wave of nausea, Optimus peered over the edge, fully expecting to see a mangled body, strewn out across the rocks below.

But there was nothing.  And despite his earlier hopes, it meant nothing.  Bumblebee was dead.  Bumblebee was alive.  Bumblebee’s continued existence was a mystery, and Optimus was doomed to the anxiety of not knowing.  What a pointless gesture this had been.

“There’s nothing here,” Optimus said at last.  “Let’s go.”

“Does that mean he could still be alive?” Bulkhead asked, manic hope spilling from his vocaliser.

“Who knows?”

“Wazzpinator know!” the bug asserted, stepping forward.  Optimus was suddenly quite aware of their positions – himself caught between a monster and oblivion.  But Waspinator was barely capable of standing on his own two feet so long as he wore the stasis cuffs, and Optimus remained at full strength.  He had nothing to fear.  He did, however, notice Bulkhead tense up from where he’d left him to sit, once more balanced precariously on his rear wheels.

“Is that so?” Optimus asked, stepping further inland, just in case.

“Bumblebot dead!”  Waspinator gushed.  “Bumblebot took flying leap from this very spot,” he continued, gesturing to his new position, while swaying slightly.

“Waspinator, stop this.  And get away from there.”

“But Bulky Bot asked!” Waspinator said, ignoring the order.  “Bumblebot was scared of Wazzpinator’s suprerior firepower, so he jumped – crack!  Splattered on rocks below!”

“Shut up!” Bulkhead growled, revving his engine in a dangerous show of aggression.

“Stop it, both of you!”  Optimus stepped between the two; this could not be allowed to go on.  “We’ve done what we came here to do; let’s get back to the ship.”

But again, nobody was listening to him.

“Bumblebot cried aaaaaall the way down, but then crying stop!  And Bumblebot izzz dead – washed out to sea, but Bumblebot’s spark –  _that_  goes to the Pit where all murderers go!  Bumblebot, and Wazzpinator too!”

Optimus knew this would happen – knew that Bulkhead and Waspinator could not be trusted together, but he’d made the mistake of thinking he could control either of them.

The next thing he knew, some twenty-two tons of tactical vehicle was charging straight towards him.  Optimus was strong, and Bulkhead unbalanced, injured, but even so, Optimus did not have the strength to hold off a vehicle of that size.  How far gone was Bulkhead – that he would hurt Optimus to get to Waspinator?  And how had Optimus not noticed?

He braced himself, hoping he could at least slow the charging giant down, but he quickly found himself flying through the air instead, a lasso of electromagnetic webbing pulling him to safety.  Instead, he got to watch – helpless, as Bulkhead charged full-force into Waspinator, knocking the inhibited Decepticon over the edge of the cliff, where he collided with the rocks below, a sickening crack filling the air at the impact.

Bulkhead, as fast as he’d been moving, as unsteady as he was on his wheels, continued on his trajectory, slamming on his breaks to only small avail.  He now sat teetering precariously over the edge – his front end and middle-right wheel hanging in mid-air, with only sharp rocks and crashing waves beneath them.

Waspinator was probably dead.  Bumblebee was probably dead.  Ratchet and Sentinel and Cliffjumper and Jetstorm were all dead – and Ironhide, and the passengers of his ship – Pit, Blurr and Jetfire were as good as dead too.  And bot of Bulkhead’s size, with Bulkhead's injuries, would be dead the moment he hit those rocks. 

Not on Optimus’s watch.

Optimus charged forward, pleased to find that Blackarachnia didn’t bother to stop him.  He grabbed onto Bulkhead’s rear axle and pulled with all his might, while Bulkhead himself made an effort to reverse, until at last, all four of Bulkhead’s remaining wheels were back on the ground, and even then, they kept going.  Optimus didn’t allow them to stop until the cliff was well out of reach.

For a long moment, neither mech said anything, as they struggled to vent air – huffing and sputtering from their recent ordeal.  It was Blackarachnia that broke the silence.

“Waspinator didn’t make it,” she said, peering over the cliff’s edge.  “The pieces I can see are all grey – dead.”  She backed away, returning to the others, arms folded.  “So basically, we went through all of that for nothing.  I hope you’re happy.”

Optimus wasn’t happy.  He felt helpless – one angry little bot shouting into the void, trying to save everyone – and he knew he could, if people would just listen, but he supposed that nobody wanted to be saved.  And there was no way to force people’s hearts without becoming the very thing he swore he’d never be.  Bulkhead had proven that much.

“You’re right,” he said, backing away to face Bulkhead and Blackarachnia both.  “This  _is_  pointless.  I’ve figured it out – Autobot or Decepticon, Cybertronians are programmed to kill each other.”

“Don’t – “ Bulkhead tried to protest, but Optimus was done with listening.

“Maybe Sentinel had the right idea – maybe  _Megatron_  had the right idea.  I’ve tried it my way – leading with compassion, trying to get over my own issues, because the needs of the rest of you came first, and I realized now that I’ve done nothing.  We’re doomed no matter what we do, because we’re creatures of hate, trapped in an unbreakable cycle of murder and despair.  Well, this Prime is done with it!  I’ve given up on fighting it – might as well solve all my problems with violence – I mean, it’s worked so well for the two of you!”

Bulkhead and Blackarachnia both were backing away from him.  Why?  Was it the axe he brandished in his hand?  When had that gotten there?  He put it away with a conflicted sigh.  It would be so easy . . .

“Look, just – just get out of here.  I’m done with all of you.  Solve your problems yourselves.”

He turned his back on his former friends, and began walking, to where, it did not matter.  Around the coast-line was where his pedes seemed to be leading him.  Blackarachnia and Bulkhead did not follow.

A part of him wondered if he’d just left Bulkhead to his death at the hands of the shady spider.  Perhaps he would become the next Waspinator – a defenseless bot left at the mercy of Blackarachnia’s twisted science.  But Optimus couldn’t bring himself to care.  Caring was his weakness.  Whatever happened to Bulkhead now, he’d have to get out of it on his own.

_You try to save everybody, you fail to save anybody._

It was true.  Already, he’d lost Ratchet, and Bumblebee, and all the rest.  He’d tried so hard, but it hadn’t made a difference.

 _“How is it that every time you go out, someone you're responsible for gets hurt?”_ Sentinel’s jab echoed in his mind.  Ratchet had told him off for it, but Ratchet was dead and Sentinel was right.

 _"Don't try to be a hero.  It's not in your program."_ Ultra Magnus had that right, didn’t he?

Optimus was a mess, a failure, he didn’t deserve to be a Prime – Pit, he didn’t deserve to  _live_.  He should have done what any good captain would, and gone down with his ship.  He still could – the ocean was far below him, jagged rocks reaching out from the tumultuous water like the damned for salvation.  He could join them, a grey mess of shattered chassis, washed out to sea – just like the others.

But he didn’t want to die.  Some small part of him, that spoke in Ratchet’s voice, urged him onward – told him that there was still hope – all was not lost, he just had to keep trying.

" _Don’t try to save everyone.  Just save_ someone."

And there, on the rocky cliff side below, Optimus saw his opportunity, his chance for salvation.

Bumblebee – broken, bleeding, but miraculously  _alive_ , was struggling up the rock face, braced on his forearms, crawling along the moderate slope on his knees.  Optimus watched as he lost his footing on a narrow ledge, and slid back down the wall, before catching himself with a cry of pain.  But then he crawled right back to his pedes and tried again, his  determination indefatigable.

Him.  Optimus would save  _him_.

“Bumblebee!” he called out, distracting the little guy, and causing him to slide several feet down the ledge, a trail of pebbles trailing down after him.  Again, Bumblebee caught himself, this time looking up towards the top with a dazed expression.

His mouth moved, but his voice was lost beneath the crashing tide.  Still, the look in Bumblebee’s optics told Optimus all he needed to know.  He was every bit as glad to see Optimus as Optimus was to see him.

“Hang on!  I’m coming for you!”

Bumblebee had very pointedly been avoiding use of his servos – there was no way he’d be able to hold onto Optimus's grappling hook well enough to be pulled up.  Optimus would have to go down.

He found a nearby boulder to latch on to, before rappelling down the cliff side, until at last, the small, yellow bot was in reach. 

Up close, it was clear that Bumblebee was in worse shape than Optimus had initially thought.  He had about half of one servo total, his chest plating was caved in deep, and unsettling chunk had been torn from his helm, allowing bits of brain module to show through, and that was to say nothing of the numerous tears and dents that spread across his chassis – it was a miracle he still functioned at all.

“Is that really you?” Bumblebee said, voice a static-laced whisper.

“It is,” Optimus said.  “I’m getting you out of here.”

Bumblebee continued struggling to speak, even as Optimus gently shifted the tiny mech into his strong arms.  “Bulkhead!  Waspinator has Bulkhead!  We have to save him!”

“Bulkhead is find right now,” Optimus said, already regretting his decision to leave the injured mech with Blackarachnia.  What had he been thinking?  “Everything’s going to be fine.  I'm taking you back up,” Optimus reassured, his grip solid, but gentle, as he retracted his grappling hook, allowing it to pull the two of them up the slope.

“But Waspinator!”

“Is dead,” Optimus said again.  He debated adding that it was Bulkhead who killed him, but decided against it.  Bumblebee didn’t need another thing to worry about right now.  “He can’t hurt you anymore.”

“But I – it was my –“ He struggled for words.

“Shh, it’s okay.  You don’t have to say anything right now.  Just rest.”

Somehow, the calming words had the opposite of their intended effect, and Bumblebee began to struggle in Optimus’s grasp.  He held tight, trying to keep the small mech from injuring himself further.

“Waspinator thought I did it!  But it wasn’t me!  I was framed!  That guy in the bar – he gave it to me!  It was him!  The guy in the bar!”

“What guy in the bar?  What are you talking about?”  He probably shouldn’t have pressed the issue, but this was the first he’d heard of any such information; he was curious, and Bumblebee was clearly determined to share.

“Back on Cybertron – I used to go there a lot with Bulkhead, but then we got hired on the Orion, and he had a lot of work to do, and I didn’t, so I kept going by myself.  There was this total creep who started showing up one day - he was _really_ interested in me – thought he was all that 'cause he had a spaceship – kept trying to get me to go back with him – like I’d ever do something like  _that_!”  He laughed weakly, before being overtaken by a brief coughing fit. 

Optimus had doubts as to the legitimacy of Bumblebee’s story – the mech never relayed an anecdote without painting himself in the best possible light. This easily could’ve been another lie – Primus knew everyone else was spewing them as of late.  But Bumblebee was so weak right now; _surely_ he wouldn't have the energy to maintain even the smallest of lies.  Optimus continued to listen, despite his misgivings. 

“And he gave you the bomb?”

“The day we were supposed to leave, he gave me a present – new game tablet – it was loaded up with my favorite game and everything!  I knew he was a bad person, but I kept the gift anyway.  I never knew it was a bomb – you gotta believe me!”

“I believe you,” Optimus confirmed, _mostly_ certain that he wasn't lying himself.  “Thank you for telling me, but you need to rest now.  We’ll go find Bulkhead, okay?”

Bumblebee shook his head, weakly.  “That’s not everything, though.”

“Bumblebee it’s okay,” Optimus protested.  “You don’t have anything to worry about.  Just rest right now.”

“But Jazz is dead.”

Optimus froze, mid-step.  “What?”

“He sent me a post-mortem message.  Found out too much, so Longarm –  _Shockwave_  killed him.  Longarm is Shockwave, by the way.  And –“

“Jazz is . . . that can’t be.”  Optimus opened his comm, tried to call his close confidant, but all he received was static.

Blackarachnia had said that Shockwave was weak – had sent Jazz out to finish him off!  Jazz should’ve been able to kill him easily!  Had she known?  Had this been her aim all along?!  And he’d  _allowed_  it to happen!  He’d trusted her!  Let her in close – left Bulkhead with her!  How could he be such a fool?!

But even through his panic, something about the idea of Blackarachnia as a villain struck him as wrong.  Maybe he was overreacting?  Maybe Shockwave was stronger than she'd expected?  He'd hurt _her_ , after all.  And Waspinator.  Maybe he'd managed to catch Jazz off-guard?  Or maybe he'd had help.

. . .

Who was he kidding?

A whimper pulled him from his self- loathing.  He had tightened his grip on Bumblebee, too tight – enough to hurt.  He released the tension from his servos immediately, and Bumblebee let out a little sigh of relief.

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to –“

“But it’s okay,” Bumblebee continued, as though nothing had happened.  “Because Prowl is gonna get us home, and Blurr is all right, and Blackarachnia is – something . . . and that’s it!”

“What?”  The last part had sounded far more lucid than the rest of Bumblebee’s rambling.

“In the sky!  It’s the ship!!  It’s the ship!!”

Optimus craned his neck back, to see high above.  Indeed, there  _was_  a ship, flying silent as the grave.  It appeared to be an IG-2000 class vessel, albeit a modified one, with heavy armaments that left little question as to the nature of its captain.  The paintjob was a vicious, deep red, but there seemed to be a lack of any visible indication as to allegiance.   

A slew of questions should have been racing through his mind – where had it come from?  Who did it belong to?  Why were they here?  Were they Autobot or Decepticon?  Were they Cybertronian at all?  But all of those questions were brushed aside in favor of pure, unbridled joy.  This was their ticket off this place!  They were finally going home!

It was as though some dark beast within him had been expelled with the arrival of the stranger.  Jazz was dead, and all of the others, but he still had Bumblebee and Prowl, Jetfire and Blurr, Bulkhead too, hopefully, and maybe even Elita-1, if fate truly was on his side.  He couldn’t be sad if he tried – they were saved –  _all_  of them would be saved!

“It looks like it’s heading towards our base.  I’ll drop you off there, and then I’ll come back out for Bulkhead and the others.”

But Bumblebee didn’t look relieved at all.  “That’s the ship!  The one!  I remember it!”

“Bumblebee, this is our ticket home.  What’s got you so upset?”

“It’s  _his_  ship!  Him!  The creep!  I swear it is!”

The words were fearful, dismal, but they weren't enough to darken Optimus’s spirits – not after all they’d been through, after how close they were!

If Bumblebee was right about the stranger, right in assuming that this was his ship, then it was a threat to the lot of them, but it was a tangible threat.  This wasn’t the fear of the unknown, of starvation, of knowing that  _anyone_  could be an enemy, could be the next victim.  This wasn’t doubt or mistrust.  This newcomer would have a face, would have a distinct presence – he was a person, and  _that_ , Optimus had been trained how to fight.

This was his opportunity – he was not running away.

“You’re sure about this?”

“Absolutely,” Bumblebee squeaked.

“Then we’ll have to change things up a bit.  I can’t put you in that kind of danger, not while you’re in this condition.  I’ll confirm with Prowl, and try to find Blackarachnia and Bulkhead – Blurr too.  I want everyone together.  One way or another, we’re getting out of here – all of us.”

“Sounds good, Boss Bot,” Bumblebee said with a weak smile.

He knew this would be difficult.  Shockwave was apparently still at large, he didn’t know just how far he could trust Blackarachnia, and he was painfully aware that he was the only bot on the island operating at one hundred percent capacity.  But Optimus was determined.  Nobody else was going to die – not here, not now.  That much he swore.

He opened his comm.  It was time to get to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow this ended up being one of the longest chapters yet, much to my surprise. There's still so much to do, even though we're so close to the end. Now, where to next?


	40. Flare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jetfire and Prowl meet Lockdown at long last.

_"Where in the Pit have you been for the last seven stellar cycles?"_

Seven stellar cycles.  How was that even possible?!  Jetfire didn’t know where to  _begin_  processing it.  Surely they hadn’t been asleep for all that time!  Had they really been here for so long?  It certainly didn’t  _feel_ like seven stellar cycles, but his chronometer  _had_  been on the fritz lately.  Goodness, what had they missed?!

“Is joke, yes?” Jetfire whispered.  “Your friend thinks he is funny, yes?”

Prowl ignored the question, staring at the communicator as though it were Decepticon scum.  “What are you talking about?”

“I’d think it was obvious,” the mech said, deep voice distorted by interference.  “You disappeared, Kid.  Vanished.  Not dead nor sleeping, just gone – as though you’d stopped existing.”  More static crept in, forcing them to piece together the explanation from jumbled fragments.

“I – I don’t understand,” Prowl continued, shaken.  There was a long pause.  For a moment, Jetfire wondered if their fragile communicator had broken down, but the mech spoke again, in that same uncaring way of his.

“I can’t talk to you like this.  I’ll be down in half a cycle.  We’ll chat face-to-face.  I’m sure we’d both appreciate it.  Lockdown out.”

Prowl didn’t say anything after the stranger hung up, apparently lost in deep thought, stricken gaze still fixed on the communicator.

“Are we going home?  Is this funny mech here to saving us?”  Even Jetfire wasn’t  _that_  naïve, but he wanted to believe so badly that this mech would be an end to their suffering, rather than a harbinger of further.  He didn’t think he could handle that.

“I don’t know,” Prowl said, at last.  “I –  _seven_!  How has it been seven stellar cycles out there?”

“Maybe,” Jetfire guessed, “the cycles on this planet are being longer?”  It was as good as he could think of, but Prowl shook his head. 

“Lockdown said I was ‘gone.’”

“What is difference?” Jetfire asked, with a quirk to his optical ridge.  “We are all being gone.”

“No.  He didn’t mean it like that,” Prowl corrected.  “Lockdown is – well, my spark is bound to his.  What he was talking about just now – he made it sound so strange, as if my spark had ceased to exist within him.”

“But not dead,” Jetfire noted, still painfully aware of the persistent burning in his own spark; it was impossible to ignore entirely, but Prowl’s meditation tricks had made it easier to force his way through it.

“But not dead, yes.  I’m afraid to know what happened to us.”

“Yes,” Jetfire agreed.  “Me too.”

He wondered if perhaps he was mis-identifying the source of this pain.  Maybe Jetstorm had just vanished as well, like Prowl had to Lockdown?  Jetfire had refused to go to the small funeral that Optimus and the others held the previous night.  He’d never seen the body, and so long as there was no body, then he had no reason to believe . . .

“Ahh!” he cried out, as a sharp pain split through his spark, threatening to tear it apart. 

“Jetfire?” Prowl asked, concern in his voice.

_Stay calm, stay calm.  Find your center.  Vent.  Find your center.  Pull yourself together._

“Yes,” he coughed.  “I am being fine.”  It wasn’t the worst his spark had felt since . . . yesterday, but it had been damn near close.  Why had it suddenly flared up like that?  It was as though Jetstorm was punching him for being an idiot, only in the spark instead of the head.  “I am get through it.  I am being fine.”

Prowl didn’t look entirely convinced, but before he could say anything, his comm was going off.

“Optimus?” he said into the device.  “Yes, I’m with Jetfire.  The ship?  You see it?  Yes, he said he’ll arrive in half a cycle – hold on . . .”

“Prowl?  What are –“ Optimus’s tinny voice sounded from Prowl’s comm, loud enough for Jetfire to hear, provided he stood close enough.

“I’m letting Jetfire listen in.  I don’t want to explain things twice, when we’ve got so little time.”  Prowl elaborated.

Jetfire felt he should say something.  Optimus  _was_  a Prime after all.  It was only proper.

“Ah, hello,” he chirped.

“You sound well,” Optimus commented.  He seemed surprised.   _Should_  Jetfire have sounded worse?  Maybe he was doing something wrong?  Another sharp pang bit at his spark; he held back his cry of pain.  He couldn’t be weak.  Not now.  Not in front of the Prime.

“He and I have been working on coping methods,” Prowl noted.  “He’s doing about as well as can be expected, given his personality, but anyway, about this ship?”

“Yes,” Optimus said.  “Bumblebee tells me that the mech who owns it is no good.”

Prowl gave a moment of pause before he replied.  “I don’t know how Bumblebee would know that, but yes, I can vouch.  His name is Lockdown.  He has no morals and no allegiance, save for money.”

“How dangerous is he?”

Prowl shrugged, a motion that would’ve been lost on the Prime.  “It’s hard to say.  He was a more-than-capable fighter when I last met him . . .” Prowl trailed off, shoulders stiffening.  What was  _that_  about?

“Jazz  _should_  be enough to defeat him.”

“Actually,” said Optimus, voice suddenly grim.  “It seem that Jazz is dead.”

“What?!”  Jetfire was shocked.  Sentinel, he’d never expected to die, and Jetstorm had never died at all (his spark flared again at the thought), but Jazz!  Jazz couldn’t die!  He was too smart!  Too controlled, too skilled, too sneaky!

“Ahah!  Is joke!  Optimus Prime Sir is not being very funny.”  He was backing away, while Prowl looked on, face impassive.

Rather than engage Jetfire, Prowl continued speaking to the Prime, though his words sounded like mush to Jetfire’s audials.

What had he done to deserve this?  He’d always obeyed Sentinel Prime.  He’d always been a good, loyal Autobot.  Why then, was he being punished so?

His frame grew hot; tiny embers began sparking ineffectually from his plating.  His spark was burning, and not in a way the fiery mech liked.  This wasn’t the comforting heat of his own powers, it was sharp and empty, spreading from his spark, all the way to the tips of his servos and pedes, consuming all that he was.

He should be dead.  He already  _was_.

All that made him  _him_  had been erased along with Jetstorm’s spark.  But Shockwave hadn’t been thorough enough.  Jetfire needed to finish the job. 

The world was spinning in a sickening roller coaster of motion, the lights around him grew dim.  Death was but a glimmer away, beckoning him.  He was so close!  He could reunite with Jetstorm!

He reached out . . .

Only to come in contact with the cool metal of a servo, grasping his own, and squeezing tight.

“Jetfire,” a voice called distantly, deep and snobbish, like the voice of a mech that needed a good knocking down.  But it was kind, nonetheless, and somehow made Jetfire feel like things could be all right.

“Find your center.  Vent.  You’ve got this.” 

An icy blast of air cycled through his vents, easing the burn that coursed through him.

“I . . .” he managed, unable to pull his thoughts together enough to elaborate, but Prowl seemed to understand anyway.

“We need you here, Jetfire.  You can’t dip out – not now.”

“I – what?” The world was slowing down, not finished with its spinning yet, but it no longer threatened to make him sick.

“Your spark is unstable right now, but you’ve already survived the first night – the worst of it.  You are  _not_  dying now.”

“I am not dying now,” he repeated, the words slowly sinking in.  “I am not to be dying now.”  The pain shrank away, reduced to a tolerable sting, confined to his core.  “I – what am I doing?”

He was on the ground, curled up on his knees.  In the tough protoform of his face, he could feel the lingering impression of fingers, as if he’d been clutching it with all his might.  His servo had since moved, however, to grab hold of Prowl’s in a vice grip.  Sheepishly, he let go.

“You had an attack.”

“Huh?”

“Spark attack,” he added.  “It’s not surprising, given what you’ve been through, but we can’t afford a repeat incident.  We need you to be alive.  We’re not exactly rolling in capable fighters right now, and as I was telling Optimus, I don’t know how much stronger Lockdown may have gotten in the past seven stellar cycles.  Even before we parted, he was able to kill Master Yoketron – assisted, yes, but . . .” he cut himself off, suddenly.

“Prowl?”

“The point is,” Prowl said with a shake of his head, “we need to take advantage of every asset we have right now.”

“W-what are you doing?!”  Prowl was moving around to his back, where he grabbed hold of the inhibitor clamp still attached to his canopy.  Within an astrosecond, Jetfire could feel the light fog that had consumed him since yesterday lift, felt himself reconnected to the fire that pulsed within his spark.  He was free.

“W-what are you _doing_?!”  He repeated, whirling around, and slapping Prowl away with more force than was strictly necessary.  Prowl winced, but otherwise didn’t seem to mind.  “I am being prisoner!  I need to being locked up!  Is punishment!”

“There are more important things to worry about right now.  Optimus and I have worked out a tentative plan, but  _anything_  could go wrong.  We need your fighting prowess; we’re just going to have to trust that you can contain your rage when push comes to shove.”

“I . . .” Jetfire paused.  Prowl was right.  He was being weak, and that was the last thing the group needed.  What would Sentinel Prime say if he could see him now?  The thought, ironically, left him terrified.

_Find your center._

“Yes Sir,” he said.  “I am being calm, just like you are teaching.”

“That’s what I want to hear.”  Prowl crawled to his feet, and Jetfire followed, albeit with less grace.  The inhibitor clamp was gone, but he was still out an arm, and he couldn’t help but worry about his spark.  Would he  _really_  be able to protect them from this Lockdown?

“Now,” Prowl continued.  “I’ve told Optimus all we know over here.  He’s going to try to reunite the others and bring them all back to us.  Our job is to keep Lockdown from leaving without them.”

“Can we not just beat up Lockdown and be stealing his ship?”

Prowl shook his head.  “He has it programmed to fly only at his command.  Optimus thinks we can work around it, but he doesn’t know this ship like I do.  We need Lockdown cooperative, or docile at the very least.”

Jetfire didn’t like that at all.  His specialty was beating things up, on land, and in the air.  But this sounded like it would require subtle maneuvering and clever conversation, two skills which Jetfire was lacking in abundance, and he wasn’t so certain that Prowl had them either.  And there was one other thing bothering him . . .

“Prowl, Sir, what are we to doing with Shockwave?”

Prowl averted his gaze, frown deepening.  “I don’t know.  Optimus is alerting Blurr to our situation; he thinks that Blurr is safe, but I’m not so sure.  You saw him earlier.”

“Yes,” Jetfire agreed.  He could still feel the dent in his chassis where Blurr had kicked him into the wall.  That was an already dangerous mech made all the more lethal by his state of mind and questionable loyalties.  Jetfire shook his head.  “But what about _Shockwave_?”

“Blurr went out after Longarm, and we know that Jazz was killed by Shockwave.  He has to know – he can’t play dumb anymore.  We’ll find out soon enough whose side he’s on.  Hopefully it’s ours.”

“Hopefully he killed Shockwave!”  The pain shot through his spark again, as the vivid glow of that mysterious red light danced in his mind, tantalizingly out of reach.  What was that thing, and why did he keep thinking about it?  He forced himself to vent.

“We’ll find out soon enough.  But we’ll worry about him later.  Right now, I want to focus all of my energy on Lockdown.  Do you think you can do that?”

Jetfire hesitated.  He honestly wasn’t completely certain he could, but what choice did he have?  Prowl and Optimus  _both_  expected him to do so – he couldn’t disappoint them.  With one more deep vent, he chased away that lingering image – that hideous red sun that haunted him so.

“Yes sir.”

~~~

Lockdown arrived on schedule, half a cycle after his fateful call.  There was no place to land a spaceship In the area, so Lockdown didn’t bother trying.  Missiles meant for ship-to-ship combat fired into the ground below, incinerating the trees that stood in its path, and searing the optics of the watching Prowl and Jetfire.  It was a stupid move – even Jetfire knew that much – and a miracle that the whole forest hadn’t burst up in a sea of flame.

Lockdown’s ship came down on the scorched earth below, eerily silent in its descent.  He must have been using some kind of audio dampeners, the kind found on the ships of smugglers, slavers, and otherwise unscrupulous mecha.  Already, Jetfire was nervous.

He grew even more nervous when the creep stepped out of the ship.  He was tall, the size of a large Autobot, but his face and frame surely belonged to a Decepticon – they were nothing like Jetfire had ever seen – sharp features obscured by layer upon layer of mods.  Unconsciously, Jetfire stepped in front of Prowl.

“It’s been awhile, Kid,” the stranger drawled, voice gruff, like the villain from one of those space westerns Jetfire used to watch.

“I can’t say the same, unfortunately,” Prowl replied, his normally indifferent tone brimming with a confident cynicism.  He stepped past Jetfire, reversing their positions.

“Who’s your friend?”

Jetfire answered with a glare.  He feared that, were he to speak, he may come off as significantly less intimidating than he hoped for.  Part-Decepticon or not, he had a baby face, and currently only one arm.  Furthermore, he was well aware that the dialect in which he spoke was oft-associated with bots of little intelligence, and he couldn’t deny that he fit the stereotype all too well.  He didn’t need to ruin his credibility by opening his mouth.

Lockdown, unfortunately, seemed to find his lack-of response more amusing than anything.  “Not a mech for words, I suppose.  But tell me, is that an Elite Guard sigil you’re wearing?” he gestured with his hooked right servo towards Jetfire’s hip plates, where he indeed kept his brand.  “It’s been awhile since I’ve seen one of those.”

“What is that meaning?” Jetfire said, breaking his cover. 

Lockdown didn’t bother answering the question, instead turning his predatory gaze to the rest of Jetfire’s chassis, like he was a meal to be devoured.  It made a shiver run down his spinal strut.

“Frame seems to have undergone some unfortunate damage, but that’s easy enough to fix.  And a chassis like yours would sell for a lot – moreso given your old allegiance.”

Again, Jetfire was taken aback by the unexpected statement.  He stumbled backwards, allowing Prowl to quickly put himself more fully between the two.  Due to differences in size, he couldn’t obscure Jetfire entirely, but it was a nice gesture, if not a bit condescending.  Jetfire didn’t need to be protected!

“You’re not selling Jetfire,” Prowl said, finality in his tone.

“No?” Lockdown responded, voice lazy, indifferent, though Jetfire sensed that he would be less than agreeable in spite of this.  “Gotta make a buck somehow, Kid.  Especially in this economy.”

“And what exactly is ‘this’ economy?  What has happened in these past seven stellar cycles?”

“You tell me,” Lockdown said, advancing.  Jetfire had to force his spark to remain calm.  He was already beginning to feel hot – he couldn’t lose it.  Not yet.

“Everyone thought the lot of you were dead.  Not me.  You and I – we’re connected, Prowl.  I’d know if you were dead.  You weren’t.  Seven stellar cycles I spent, not knowing.  I thought maybe you’d gone for good, figured I could at last move on with my life.  Only every time I tried, I could feel just the slightest hint of you somewhere inside me, holding me back, just like you always have.

“So tell me.  What happened to you?  Something none-too swell, judging by the looks of you.”

Prowl too, moved closer, though he never dropped his guard.  Hesitant, Jetfire trailed behind him.

“I don’t know.  We’ve been here barely more than a lunar cycle.  It’s been brutal, yes, but not particularly extensive – certainly not to the degree you’re describing.”

“Brutal?” Lockdown repeated.  “How so?”

Prowl took his time answering, as though he was choosing his words with great care.  “There were twelve of us when we first got here.  Now it’s down to seven, plus one Decepticon we ran into on the island.  And, as you can see, even those of us whose sparks beat on haven’t made it out unscathed.”

“Indeed,” Lockdown said, with a flicker of amusement in his otherwise detached voice.  “I felt some of that, you know.  One day I’m goin’ about my life as usual, then suddenly you’re back, vivid as you ever were.  The pain came next.  Immense.  Thought I would die right there.”  He chuckled, darkly.

“And then again, about a decacyle later – another flare-up of pain.  Figured I’d make my way back to you and find out what the Pit you were doin’.  Then earlier today, you started with that  _other_  trick of yours.  Pretty low, Kid.  And desperate.”

Prowl said nothing to that, and Jetfire followed his lead.  The mech reeked of deceit, and the fact that he was apparently a slaver didn’t help matters.  And come to think of it, hadn’t he also been the one to kill Master Yoketron?  And that meant that he’d stolen the protoforms too, right?

“What is happening on outside?” Jetfire tried to ask, drawing Lockdown’s attention, and earning a disapproving glare from Prowl.

“Same ol’, same ol’.”

“But were you not one who makes stealing of protoforms?  What happened to them?”  His words drew a look of horror from Prowl, but Lockdown let out his dark approximation of a laugh.

“Prowl never told you?”  He looked to the mech in question, who was frozen to the spot, frame tense and plating flared, like a cornered criminal drawn to the end of his rope.  “No, I suppose he wouldn’t have.  Surely he’d be dead by now if you knew the truth – common criminal like him slumming with the Elite Guard?  Not likely.”

“What is he meaning?” Jetfire said, turning his stare to Prowl, who was doing a spectacular job of failing to hide his guilt.  Had Jetfire been wrong to trust him?

“Yes, go on Prowl, tell the kid.”

Jetfire half-expected Prowl to bolt, and Jetfire wasn’t entirely sure he would be able to catch him if he did.  But he didn’t.  A change in demeanor came over Prowl, sudden and unexpected.  His tension, his fear vanished in the shuttering of an optic, and his entire frame took on an air of serene confidence.  Jetfire could see Lockdown’s sneer fade into a scowl at the transformation.

“I have nothing to hide.  That part of my life is over – has been over for a long time now, since Mater Yoketron showed me a new way.  I tried to make things right – tried to atone for my sins, but I know now that I never can.  Trying to do so made an even bigger mess of things, for everyone involved.  I’m done with hiding.  Once we get off this planet, feel free to arrest me; execute me if you must.  I will gladly accept.”

Jetfire didn’t like the way this was going at all.  What had Prowl done?  He’d sabotaged the ship, hadn’t he?  Was there something more?

“Lockdown and I worked together for eons, taking all sorts of unsavory work for money, at first to get by, though we continued long after our needs were met.  Bot trafficking in particular, was our primary line of business.

“I tried to get out numerous times, less due to any moral objection, and more because of a distaste for my partner, but every time I left, I’d wind up right back where I started, trapped with this scumbag.”

“Words hurt, Prowl,” Lockdown sneered, though he didn’t sound particularly hurt.  Prowl ignored the jab.

“We had no allegiances.  Autobot, Decepticon; Cybertronian, alien – as long as they were willing to pay, we did the work.  In this case, it was a Decepticon – high up in the food chain, from what I’d gathered, and looking to build his own personal army.  We didn’t ask why; we never did.

“We came to the conclusion that the protoforms would be our best bet, and so we infiltrated Master Yoketron’s dojo, with me as a student.  But the things he taught – his compassion, his strength – they resonated with me.  They’d been what I’d needed to hear my entire life, and I swore then and there that I’d put my old life behind me.  But when I tried to back out . . .”

“Old coot was filling your head with feel-good nonsense, Kid,” Lockdown interrupted, a growl belying the anger he hid so well.  “You and I both know that’s not how the world works.  You do what it takes to survive, and bots like us – from where we come from – well, we gotta do a little bit more.  Scramble for resources – money – to have enough power to not be trampled on by the upper crust.”

“You know nothing,” Prowl growled, optics flashing behind his visor, again breaking an otherwise controlled demeanor.

“More naïve blather.  You’d been compromised, Kid – were gonna ruin us for good – especially if you went blabbering to your new best friend.  I woulda killed  _you_  if it wouldn’t have put my own spark at risk.”

“So,” Jetfire began, trying to make sense of what he was hearing.  “You were working for Decepticon, but Lockdown was killing Master Yoketron because Prowl quit?”

“Oh no,” Lockdown laughed.  “ _I_  didn’t kill the old loonie.  I wanted to, don’t get me wrong, but a certain junior cyberninja got in my way.  Seemed to have gotten the idea that he was gonna rid the world of ‘my brand of evil.’

“I showed up at the dojo, and the little bastard attacked me.  And then, well, the funniest thing happened.”

Instantly, Prowl’s confidence deflated, his plating began to tremble, his face took on a terrified expression.  “Don’t.”

“The Master himself showed up, took a lethal blow  _Prowl_  had intended for me.  Don’t know how he worked it out, but somehow he’d realized who Prowl was, as well as our relationship, and was confident that my death would surely result in Prowl’s own.  And this is why his teachings are worth jack shit.  Bot died a pointless death, and look how many more died because of it.”

“So . . . Prowl killed Master Yoketron?”  Surely that was impossible!  Prowl was a decent bot – he’d helped Jetfire after Jetstorm’s death, was still helping him now.  And it was an accident! But Sentinel had long ago taught him that there was no such thing.  A killer is a killer is a killer.  Besides, Prowl's own greed had gotten him into the situation in the first place, hadn’t it?  Prowl was no good, just like Sentinel Prime had always said.

Jetfire felt betrayed, faint.  His spark flared again, sending him collapsing to the ground with a scream, clutching at his chest in a half-hearted effort to claw the wretched thing out.

_Focus, focus, focus._

Distantly, the words of Lockdown and Prowl reached his audials.

“Aww, looks like your friend couldn’t handle the truth.”

“Jetfire!”

“And if that’s his reaction to finding out what you did to Yoketron, imagine what he’ll do when he finds out what you did afterword, in some pathetic attempt to rectify it.”

“He knows,” Prowl snapped.  “And he was also in-part responsible for what happened to the ship.  He and Sentinel Prime.”

“Is that so?” Lockdown said, slow and smug.  “What an unlucky ship then, sabotaged on so many sides.”

“What happened afterwards?” Prowl pressed.  “Why won’t you say?  It couldn’t have been nothing!  A ship so high-profile doesn’t vanish for seven stellar cycles without any ramifications!”

“Indeed,” Lockdown agreed.  “And that’s why, for just this once, I’m offering to let you come back with me.”

“Never.”

“I was afraid you’d say that,” Lockdown sighed.  “Thing is, Kid, you ain’t got a choice.  This is a matter of personal safety.  It’s a dangerous world out there, and I’m not gonna allow myself to die by proxy because some mech has a death wish for himself.

“So come on.  Last chance.  We gather up your little buddies, make what we can off of ‘em, and get the Pit outta dodge, just like old times.”

“I’d rather die.”

The next thing Jetfire knew, Prowl was on the ground, clutching his torso, energon seeping around the slipshod weld-work, while Lockdown stood over him, his hooked right servo held around Prowl’s skinny neck.

This was wrong.

Prowl wasn’t a bad guy.  He’d done bad things – terrible things, but they all had.  Jetfire had, and Jetstorm too, and yes, even Sentinel Prime wasn’t innocent.  But Prowl had done good as well – had helped him, stayed by his side, even when he felt like his spark was about to burst from his chest.  And he’d even said that he would allow himself to be arrested once they got out.  That wasn’t something a bad guy would do!  If anyone was bad here, it was Lockdown, and if he won, then  _all_  of them would suffer, bad or not.

He crawled to his feet, brushing aside the pain that ripped at every fiber of his being, and charged.

Jetfire fought admirably, knocking Lockdown away from Prowl, dodging that dangerous hook, fighting with fire, melting and charring some of the rare unreinforced patches of plating.  But it wasn’t enough.

Jetfire’s movements were sluggish, unbalanced, weighed down by the emptiness in his spark, and the loss of his left arm.  He’d never fought with such a handicap before, never fought while having the absolute knowledge that his brother wasn’t there by his side, fighting with him.

A heavy blow to the helm knocked him off his feet, and a few kicks for good measure left him too disoriented to access his flame.  He was on his back, one of Lockdown’s massive pedes seated on his chestplate, grinding his body into the ground.  The position felt oddly familiar, though he couldn’t say why.  Perhaps it had something to do with that red light he kept on seeing?

“Feisty, isn’t he?  And the fire is a nice touch.  Tell me,” he said, leaning down.  “How'd you learn that trick?  What mods are you packin'?”

“Leave him be,” Prowl growled, though the sound was weak, laced with static.  Perhaps he’d taken some damage to his vocalizer in Lockdown’s attack.

Jetfire was unable to hear Lockdown’s response, as his head was quickly filled with the crackle of static – his comm.

“Hngh?”

“Jetfire?  This is Blurr.  Optimus said you’re already by that spaceship, and so I figured I’d comm you, mostly because I didn’t have anyone else’s frequency on hand.”

“Blurr?” Jetfire said in a daze.  He had no idea what the little traitor was saying – probably something about Longarm/Shockwave; that was a safe bet.  The bot was hard to understand at the best of times.  Damaged as Jetfire was, he couldn’t make sense of a thing.

“Yes, Blurr.  I said that already – apologies if you missed it.  You’ve been through a lot, and I acknowledge that I’m not the easiest mech to listen to, so I’ll speak slowly.”  Indeed, his pace slowed to a more manageable speed, words becoming sharp and stilted.

“We’re almost there.  Just a few kliks away.  Don’t leave without us.  Blurr out.”

Jetfire groaned.  Were he of a more stable presence of mind, he might have wondered who the ‘we’ was that Blurr was referring to, but disoriented as he was, he hadn’t even noticed.  All he knew was that Blurr was coming, and Jetfire had never been happier for the presence of the conniving little wretch. 

Of course, his good mood was ruined, when he felt a hook force itself around his own neck, sharply pulling him upwards, closer to the skull-like face of Lockdown.

“Care to tell me who your little friend is?  I believe you said ‘Blurr?’”

Jetfire smiled.  “You’re in trouble.  Blurr is really strong and not even missing any arms or anything!  He will be beating of you.”

Judging by his own grin, Lockdown didn’t buy the threat, but unfortunately, he wasn’t stupid enough to completely ignore it.

“Prowl,” he said, turning to his former partner.  Prowl groaned weakly in response.  “Go take care of that friend of yours.  And don’t try to pull anything funny, or your fiery friend here snuffs it.  Catch ‘im and bring ‘im in.”

“Easier said than done,” Prowl snorted, but was abruptly silenced by Jetfire’s pained cry, the hook piercing the protoform of his neck, brushing dangerously against his primary fuel line.

“Fine, you win,” Prowl said, fighting his way into an unsteady standing position.  “I’ll see what I can do.”

All at once, Jetfire was dragged roughly to his feet, and with the hook still digging into his throat, was pulled away, up the ramp, and into Lockdown’s ship.  The two remained near the entrance, listening for events to unfold.

Blurr was good as his word (at least in this case).  Within a few short kliks, the sound of footsteps could be heard approaching the ship, but they sounded far too heavy to be Blurr.  The red light filled Jetfire’s vision, and he clutched his spark again with a whimper.  Please, say it wasn’t!

“Shockwave!”  That was Prowl’s cry of surprise.  It was the only thing Jetfire was able to make out.  He could hear Blurr’s voice, saying something, could hear Prowl reply, but none of it made any sense over the sound of his own pain.

Shockwave was out there, and Blurr was with him, and Prowl was supposed to catch them – hurt Blurr.  He could feel a flash of heat, several times hotter than that created by his own flames, tearing at the ghost of his arm, could feel a slight form struggling in his grasp, tiny gears twisting and grinding beneath abused protoform as he squeezed tighter and tighter, to keep his prisoner from escaping, could feel his spark torn apart, an emptiness, a loss of time, and then a familiar weight at his back, as the dead body of his brother lay motionless in the crater, alongside the mutilated corpse of Sentinel Prime.  Shockwave had killed the two bots that meant more to Jetfire than anything, and now he was going to kill Prowl too – Prowl, who had helped him when he was at his worst, made him believe that he could go on.

The heat of his flames overtook him, sending Lockdown leaping away with a hiss of pain, and as his plating grew black as charcoal, he flew from the room, in a fireball of rage and determination.

He didn’t care that the scene he came upon held little threat.  Didn’t care that Prowl and Blurr stood far apart, demeanors calm and controlled.  Didn’t care that Shockwave was kneeling on the ground, massive wrists bound by stasis cuffs.  All that mattered was that the monster was there, with his burning red optic piercing straight through his spark.  Jetfire would not allow him to hurt anyone else.

He charged.


	41. Caged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blurr would do anything to make Shockwave happy.

The stillness of the cave was exactly what Blurr needed.  Jazz’s remains hadn’t moved, of course, the floor was covered in the spilt energon of several different bots, the contents of several tables had been smashed, upset, spilled to the ground, from battle or otherwise.  But with his optics offlined, he could ignore the chaos, and bask in the warm presence of the bot at his side, solid and safe as he ever was.  His racing thoughts were lulled by the serene hum of Shockwave’s engine, and his spark pulsed in time with Shockwave’s own, easing the overwhelming terror that had plagued him of late.  For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, condensed into a mere two solar cycles, Blurr was content.

It wouldn’t last.

Sooner or later, someone would barge into the cave and interrupt the small bit of tranquility the two of them had forged, and Blurr knew that that would be it for them.  There would be no more hiding.  The others had already proved their distrust of him earlier, and with Jazz dead – Jazz, who had led the investigation against Shockwave, against _him,_ Blurr didn’t see a way he could redeem the situation.

Worse yet, there was no way to know just how much Jazz had shared with the others.  Had he taken his knowledge of Shockwave to the grave?  That was unlikely.  Surely he would have told someone, but whom?  And what did it matter?  If Blurr was certain of anything at this point, it was that he and Shockwave were completely on their own.

The crackle of static tingled at the base of his antenna, drawing his attention, resonating at the same frequency that Shockwave had told him to look out for.  This was it.  But this was also too soon! Shockwave was still half-dead; he needed more time!  It was nearly enough to send Blurr's spark back into the whirling abyss of panic, but he had a mission attend to.  He needed to focus.

_"Hello?  This is the Death's Head hailing the surface.  Anyone down there?"_

_"Lockdown . . ."_

Lockdown?  He knew that name.  He was a renowned bounty hunter.  The Elite Guard sometimes hired him out for missions that were diplomatically unviable, or when they were running short on bot-power.  But he was notorious for playing both sides; everyone knew better than to trust him.  How did Prowl know the guy?

"Where in the Pit have you been for the last seven stellar cycles?"

Blurr had to pause, reset his audial programming.  Had he heard that right?  Seven?! 

It wasn't the most surprising thing he'd learned on Energoa, to be sure; he still had vivid memories of finding himself trapped in a looping explosion that nearly ended his life, and relegated him to a useless, annoying invalid for a deca-cycle.  Mysterious temporal happenstances had precedent in this place.  But the news was certainly frustrating.  What had they missed in all that time?  Already, based on his knowledge of their own events, he knew it was nothing good.

The rest of the conversation was difficult to parse, as heavy static interfered with their makeshift communicator.  Evidently, Lockdown was having the same issue on his end.

_"I can't talk to you like this.  I'll be down in half a cycle . . . Lockdown out."_

Half a cycle wasn’t much time at all.  Shockwave needed  _much_ more recuperation in order to regain any degree of functionality, and between Lockdown’s reputation, and Blurr and Shockwave’s current standing with the rest of the group, they were going to need every degree of functionality they could muster.  But they also couldn’t risk waiting, lest they find themselves stranded out here with a trashed space bridge as their only hope off this wretched world.  He had little doubt that the others would leave Shockwave behind in a sparkbeat, and by extension himself, if the opportunity arose, and somehow, Blurr didn’t think that Shockwave would be willing to wait around for much longer.   _He_  certainly was done with this place.

_One thing at a time._

“Shockwave,” he murmured, gently nuzzling the thick protoform of Shockwave’s neck to rouse his sleeping companion.  His dim, red optic came to life immediately, as alert as could be expected.  A jagged crack still fractured his vision.  “It’s time.  The ship will be here within the cycle.”

“Already?” Shockwave replied with a slight surprised lilt to his strained, exhausted voice.  “How is that possible?”

“Best I can tell, the ship is helmed by Prowl’s bondmate – or ex-bondmate.  Long story short, he felt the pain Prowl's been in through their bond, and decided to come investigate."  It was perhaps the most succinct summary he'd provided in his life.  He would've been proud if he wasn't in such a rush.

“Is that so?”  Shockwave shifted sleepily, settling his weight more fully into the wall for support.  The virus had left his fuel supplies at a critical low, and it was clear just how badly it affected him.  He needed energon, and he needed it badly.  But what was Blurr to do?  The only med grade was still trapped in Shockwave's subspace, and his abused tanks wouldn't be able to handle anything stronger. 

Distracted by his thoughts, Blurr found himself taken by surprise when Shockwave spoke up again.  “It’s unfortunate, but I don’t suppose we have much choice.  I want on that ship.”

Shockwave reached out with his good servo, movements calculated yet casual, and wrapped his massive claws around Blurr’s body, pulling him from the ground to rest atop his  broad chest.  Abused vents let out a shuddering sigh, painful, but contented.  His  thumb claw moved to trace the thin plating of Blurr’s belly.

Blurr would've been more pleased with Shockwave's affections if the two of them hadn't been confined to such a dangerously tight schedule.  But he couldn't bring himself to complain.  Those claws, capable of killing a powerhouse like Sentinel Prime turned out to be equally capable of eliciting  sensations of pleasure, and Blurr couldn't contain the happy purr of his own engine.  If only they had more time.  “Sir?”  

“I’m afraid I need a moment.  Forgive me.”

“I can try and scrounge up more med grade.  It looks like you could really use it.”

“Mmmm,” Shockwave groaned, with a shake of his head.  “You’re perfect right where you are.  Let me try something else.”  The comforting claw disappeared from Blurr’s frame, a fact that left him with a twinge of cold disappointment.  The appendage instead disappeared behind Shockwave’s back, in an effort to reach into his subspace.  Naturally, he was met with resistance.

 Even Blurr could hear the sharp crackle in the air as Shockwave’s storage protocols protested their forced reactivation, and as physics tried its best to remain unviolated.  But ultimately, Shockwave's will was mightier, and his hand returned, marred by a fresh coat of nasty scratches, but with the prize of a substantial cube of med grade in-claw.  It quickly disappeared behind his mask. 

The sight of the fresh injuries made Blurr’s spark pulse in a frantic worry.  No fuel lines had been broken, but the last thing Shockwave needed was another drain on his already weak condition.

“Sir . . .” he said with a whine, optics locked on the fresh scars.

“It’s superficial damage.  The benefits of replenished energon stores far outweigh the detriment.”

“Of course,” Blurr said, fears not at all assuaged.  Shockwave must have sensed his doubt, for those wonderful claws returned to their rightful place around his frame, in an effort to bring him to the border of peace of mind, but he couldn't allow himself to be completely at ease just yet.  There were other things that Shockwave needed to know.

“There was something else, though.”

“And what was that?” Shockwave prompted, optic shuttering off, but claws still working their magic. 

“According to Lockdown, we’ve been missing for seven stellar cycles.”

Shockwave’s claws tightened, just for a moment, but one moment was enough.  Blurr's delicate plating dented beneath the force, three matching scars across his chassis.  It hurt, but not enough to cause any real damage.  He tried to protest.  “Shockwave?”

The claws loosened immediately, and Shockwave’s optic flickered back on, to regard Blurr with what must have passed as a look of horror for him.  It did not sit well on Shockwave's not-quite face, nor did it pass, even after he regained enough control to provide an explanation." 

“Apologies.  This comes as a most-unfortunate surprise to me.  I don’t suppose he said anything about the political ramifications of such an event?”

“No.  There was too much interference, so he ended the call early.”

“Then,” Shockwave said, sitting up more fully, allowing Blurr to slide into his lap, “we should make sure to greet them in a timely manner.  This is not a ship we can afford to miss.”

Blurr didn’t want to move.  Shockwave’s frame was warm and comfortable, and the cave, cold and chaotic, but he knew better than to protest.  He crawled away from Shockwave to stand on his own two pedes.  Immediately, his comm went off.  What now?

“Optimus Prime to Blurr.  Come in.”

Strange.  What did  _he_  want?

“Blurr speaking.”

Optimus’s voice was overwhelmed by relief when he next spoke.  “Thank the Allspark.  I was afraid you’d been hurt.  Bumblebee’s told me that Jazz is dead.”

And there went the world.

No no no no no no!  This was bad!  This was _so_ bad!  Blurr didn’t have a response for this.  He hadn't thought this far ahead.  Hadn't wanted to!

His mouth started running on instinct, thoughts miles behind.

“Jazz isn’t dead!  He’s not, he’s not!  I didn’t kill him – he’s fine, he’s fine, we’re fine, we’re all fine, nothing’s wrong, everything’s perfect, and there’s a ship and –“

“Whoa.  Calm down, Blurr.  I can’t understand a word you’re saying.  Are you all right?”

“Yes Sir,” he said, for once thankful for his incomprehensible vocal tic.  That spiel had been more than a little incriminating.

“Good.  That’s all that matters.”  A pause, and then, “Is Longarm with you?”

“N-no,” Blurr stuttered, feeling Shockwave’s optic on his back.  “No, I haven’t seen him.”

“Then that’s for the best.  I didn’t want to have to break this to you, but it turns out that Longarm and Shockwave are the same bot.”

“What?!” Blurr shrieked, skittering backwards, and right into the sturdy treads of Shockwave’s leg.  Evidently, he’d managed to find his way upright during Blurr's meltdown, though he remained hunched over, ready to collapse at any moment.

Optimus knew.  And if he’d told Blurr, then who else had he told?  He trusted every other bot on the island (save for Shockwave, of course) more than he trusted Blurr.  Did that mean everyone knew?  Primus, everyone knew!  The beans were spilled!  His mind raced to find a means of damage control.

“I know, this has gotta be hard for you to hear, but it doesn’t matter now.  We’ve got a ship off this planet.  We can take it back to Cybertron, and leave Shockwave behind.  Sound good?”

This couldn’t be happening!  Was this a joke?  Why was Optimus telling him this?  Optimus shouldn't be telling him anything.  Blurr was bad too – a villain, a traitor, halfway on the road to being a Decepticon himself!  There was no way Optimus was that naïve!

This was a trap, then!  Optimus was going to lure him to the ship in order to confine him and make him pay for what he'd done to Jazz.  And while the thought filled Blurr with dread, it was also somewhat appealing.  He didn't deserve any better than that.

“Y-yes Sir.”

“Good,” he paused again, as though he was preparing to say something  _else_  unpleasant.  “Ah, there is one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“We may have to fight to get this ship.  I know you’ve been through a lot, but I have to know, do you think you’re capable of that?”

“Fighting?”  He thought back to Jazz, a strong bot in his own right, and the effortless way he’d taken him down.  He'd caught him off-guard yes, but it wouldn't have mattered either way.  No one could match Blurr in speed.  “Yes sir.  Physically, I’m doing all right.  If I need to fight someone off, then that’s no problem.  They’d have to catch me if they want to hurt me.”

“Perfect..  We’re rendezvousing at the campsite.  I have to go collect Bulkhead, so I’ll be a bit late, but Prowl and Jetfire are both there.  Just don’t let them leave without us.”

“Understood Sir.  Is that everything?”

“It is.  Good luck out there.  And take care.”

“Of course, Sir.  You too.  Blurr out.”

The moment he hung up, the panic he’d been repressing for Optimus burst forth in a frightening display of too-much-energy and frazzled nerves.  He bolted, away from Shockwave, hoping to escape this dreadful mess he'd landed himself in.  Almost immediately, his path was hindered by a cave wall.  Rather than change direction, however, he leapt from the ground and allowed himself to rebound off the wall, running straight ahead until he was again out of space, and then he repeated the motion.  Soon enough, he was bouncing from wall to wall to wall, a bullet of blue, showering the floor below in a rain of pebbles.  It wasn't a particularly safe coping mechanism, but damned if it didn’t feel good.

“Blurr, what are you doing?  Stop this.”

On command, Blurr skidded to a halt at Shockwave’s pedes, but he was still too upset to sit still.  And so he paced.

“He knows!” Blurr wailed.  “Optimus knows!   _They_  know!  About Jazz, and about you!  Oh no no no no no no!  This is so bad bad bad bad bad!”

“I . . . see,” Shockwave sighed.  Though more composed than Blurr was, he was clearly displeased.  “How did he find out?”

“I don’t know!  Jazz, probably.  Yes!  It had to be Jazz!  He must have had some way to let the others know he was dead – that’s exactly the kind of thing he would’ve done!  No no no!”

“I agree,” Shockwave said, pulling Blurr back into his grasp, caging him between his claws.  Blurr didn’t fight it, instead clinging to the nearest with all his might.  As much as he hated confinement, when it was Shockwave's clutches he was trapped in, his unease faded to comfort.  He was safe here, between these claws, and he longed to stay that way.

“They’re gonna leave without you – they want to – they can’t!  I won’t let them leave without you!”

“What do you suppose we do?”

Blurr spat out his answer without wasting time on thought.  “I’ll kill them!  I can kill the others!  It’ll be easy!  Jetfire and Prowl are already crippled, and Bumblebee and Bulkhead aren’t fighters, and even Optimus and the spider are nothing!  Yes!  They can’t hurt us if they’re dead!  I’ll kill them all, and if we get to the ship and Lockdown tries to give us trouble, I’ll kill him too!”

Shockwave, however, seemed to have other ideas.   Distaste and concern flickered through his EM field, a reassurance.  “While no doubt your plan is effective, I would request that you refrain.  You are very unwell right now.  Something of that nature may well destroy you, and that outcome is unappealing to me.”

“Then what?!” Blurr snapped, craning his neck up to glare.  “They’ll kill you if they get the chance!  And then I’ll have to kill them anyway, so why are we even bothering with step two?”

“Because I have a plan.”  Again, Shockwave released Blurr to reach into his subspace, meeting less resistance this time than he had before.  Once finished, his claws returned with a Decepticon-sized pair of stasis cuffs.  Blurr wasn’t sure he understood.

“You want me to arrest you Sir?  Because if that’s the case, I’ll have you know that I think this is a terrible idea.  We get on the ship and it’s off to your execution, unless you want to hijack an escape pod and flee, but again, I have my reservations as to the plausibility of success in that scenario.  You’d have to rely on me to get you out, for starters, and no one in their right mind is gonna let me near you, and even if we do make it _that_ far, we’ll be sitting ducks out in space with only an escape pod to protect us.”

“All valid points, but think about it like this: an Autobot ship carrying upwards of one thousand passengers, mostly politicians, celebrities, and top brass military mechs disappears.  What do you think happens next?”

Blurr paused, dread overwhelming.  He knew exactly what had happened, had tried so very hard to ignore it.  Until Lockdown had called with news from the outside, Blurr had been too wrapped up in his own affairs to so much as consider the effect their disappearance had had on the outside, and he suspected Shockwave was in a similar boat.  Now, however, it was impossible to ignore.

“They would have blamed the attack on the Decepticons.”

“Yes,” Shockwave agreed, again shuttering off his optic, though he remained standing.  “It would be seen as a violation of the Tyrest Accord.  The Autobots would, no doubt, respond with force, the Decepticons would retaliate, and the galaxy would be thrown into the next Great War.”

“And you want me to put you at the mercy of a bunch of Autobots?”  Blurr felt he understood even less than he did before.

“I’ve wasted too much time here.  Lord Megatron needs me and I will go to him.”  There was something dangerous in Shockwave's tone, and Blurr didn't like it.

“So let me –“

But Shockwave wasn’t done.  “But I am a disgrace.  I failed in my mission, blew my cover, dawdled around here for seven stellar cycles, and all I have to show for it is you.  As far as the cause is concerned, the difference doesn’t compare, but you are useful enough that I may yet be forgiven.”

That didn't sound even a little bit good.  Did Shockwave intend to use him to cover is own aft?  There was no way that was going to end well for anyone, least of all Blurr. 

“Sir?” he said, in a half-hearted effort to protest.  He didn't like this plan, and had the strangest sense that Shockwave, weak from the earlier assaults to his body, drained from his extended stay in this land of paranoia-inducing chaos, and faced with the irreconcilable conflict of love and duty, was at last beginning to lose his tight hold on sanity.  At last, he and Blurr were in the same sinking ship, and Blurr wasn't about to abandon him now.  

“And I think you will thrive amongst our kind," Shockwave continued, a hint of pride in his tone.  "The Autobots never afforded you the respect you deserved, I’ve watched you long enough to know that.  They feared you – what you could do.  They mocked you, abused you, treated you as inferior, because you didn’t match their definition of perfection.

“But we, as Decepticons are united by our ‘imperfections.’  The only thing that matters for us is power, and you, my love, have that in no small supply.  I would have had difficulty defeating Jazz even at my full strength.  You annihilated him.  And I have no doubt, that had you meant to kill him, the Sentinel mishap would have ended in a rather different way.  Would that it had come to that."

He wasn't wrong in that regard at least, but Blurr didn't want to think about either bot right now.  Shockwave seemed to pick up on his displeasure, for he was quick to put an end to the tangent.

“And so," he proclaimed, stepping forward with no small degree of effort, "we are going to get on that ship, and you are going to be as sane as we can get you.  Lockdown can be bought out, if need be.  And the Autobots will be dealt with eventually, but not by you – not while you’re in such a fragile state.

“So here,” he placed the stasis cuffs into Blurr's trembling hands.   “We’ve wasted enough time.  We have a ship to catch.”

Still, Blurr hesitated.  “Are you going to be able to walk with these things on, Sir?  You can barely stand as it is.”

“Always thinking ahead,” Shockwave mused.  “I do so love that about you.  But it’s no matter.  I’ve disabled these, just in case something does go wrong, though I feel I may have to rely on your protection even in such an event.  I am in no way capable of any more battles right now.”

This was it then.  Acting in sound judgment or not, Blurr had never been able to stand up to Shockwave before, and he wasn’t about to develop the ability now.  Pausing only to murmur an “Understood, Sir,” Blurr slipped the cuffs onto Shockwave’s bulky wrist plates, and led him from the cave.

~~~

The pace was quicker than Blurr had been expecting.  Shockwave’s stride was long, even with his weak shambling; Blurr had to move at a light jog  just to maintain his lead.  They moved through the woods quickly, exchanging no words to conserve Shockwave’s meager energy reserves, but as they neared base, Blurr’s nerves began to fray.  What if someone saw Shockwave and didn’t understand he was a 'prisoner,' and tried to kill him?  Or what if Lockdown had proven himself an enemy and had set up a trap that Blurr was now walking into?  What if?  What if?  What if?

He needed to know – needed to talk to someone.

"Jetfire?  This  is Blurr.  Optimus says you're already by that spaceship, and so I figured I'd comm you, mostly because I didn't have any else's frequency on hand."

"Blurr?" came the dull reply of Jetfire's voice over the comm.

"Yes, Blurr.  I said that already – apologies if you missed it.  You've been through a lot, and I acknowledge that I’m not the easiest mech to listen to, so I'll speak slowly.  We're almost there.  Just a few kliks away.  Don't leave without us.  Blurr out."

From the tone of his voice, Blurr could tell that Jetfire was in poor shape, even though he’d been fine earlier that day.  There were several explanations for the change in condition that Blurr could think of.  Maybe his spark was acting up after a failed sparkbond, or maybe he'd gotten into a fight with Prowl, or maybe he'd tripped and hurt himself.  But Blurr didn't believe any of these.  Someone had hurt Jetfire, and that someone was almost certainly Lockdown.  His legs stopped moving.  He was almost certainly walking to his doom.

The flat side of a long claw nudged gently against his back plate.

_“What’s wrong?”_ Shockwave's words appeared silently on his HUD. 

_“I don’t feel good about any of this.  There are far too many uncertain variables ahead to make throwing ourselves into the mess a terrible idea.  What if I can’t protect you?  What if I can’t protect_ me _?  We should wait for Optimus!  Primus, I don’t even know how I’m going to explain all this – explain you!  This is too much!“_

The nudging grew more forceful, until Blurr was stumbling forward, in lieu of being knocked from his feet.  “Shockwave!”

_“I will not risk being left behind.  We press on.  Think up your cover as we walk.  I have the utmost faith in you, Blurr.  You will get us away from here.  But we have to keep going.”_

Every instinct he had screamed that this was a bad idea, but once again, he allowed himself to give in to Shockwave’s superior will.  Shockwave loved him; he would never allow anything bad to happen to him, and the same was true for Blurr.  They would keep each other safe, even if they had to burn the island to the ground.  He kept going.

The Death’s Head was not a spectacular ship.  Blurr had seen many like it in his line of work.  He took in the size class, the weapons, the modifications – Vadarian hologram projectors, audio dampeners, and recognized them for what they meant: Lockdown’s ship was specialized to allow him to slip in and out of places unnoticed, with just enough firepower to get potential pursuers off his tail.  Moreover, it was not the type of ship that came equipped with functioning escape pods, which would make their planned escape all the harder.  He'd  _known_  this was a bad idea.

His nerves were shot further when Prowl, hunched over and clutching his leaking midsection, limped from the ship to greet them.  The first words out of his mouth were the last that Blurr cared to hear right now, at least in such a tone of voice.

“Shockwave!”

Prowl had no right to utter that name, with such accusation, with such hate.  Blurr wanted to kill him for daring, to feel the hot blade of his saw slice into that thin armor at eight hundred miles per hour, feel that light frame split apart around him, hot energon splattering his chassis.  But he refrained, because Shockwave would disapprove.

“Yes, he is my prisoner.”

Prowl didn’t dare move closer, regarding the two with a dangerous suspicion.  “What happened to you?”

He was talking about Blurr’s new energon-pink paintjob, no doubt.  He couldn't tell the truth, of course.  If he did, then he really  _would_  have to kill Prowl!  But perhaps he could skirt it.

“It’s Jazz’s.  I ran into him in Shockwave’s cave.  He died trying to arrest Shockwave, but we got him in the end.”

“No,” Prowl whispered.  Blurr feared it was disagreement with his lie, that Prowl didn’t believe him, but the small part of his processor that still functioned correctly told him that the disbelief came from the fact that Prowl was dead, and not from any suspicion against himself.  Apparently both were wrong.

“No, we can’t.  We can’t keep  _Shockwave_  as a prisoner.  He’s too dangerous.  We can’t.”

Blurr narrowed his optics.  He could do this; he could convince Prowl to stand down.  He’d bluffed his way through worse.  “Unfortunately, this is not your decision to make.  As a Decepticon who infiltrated the Autobot  _military_ , this is a military decision.  Optimus is the only officer on the island, and I know he’d support my decision here.  He doesn’t want any more death, and Shockwave could provide us with useful intel, no matter how you spin it.  Besides, do you really want to deny Jazz his dying wish?”

Prowl narrowed his optics.  He wasn't buying the story.  Why not?!  Did he know the truth!  It was a perfectly valid cover story!  Why wasn't Prowl buying it?!                                                                                                                          

But Blurr didn't get the chance to find out.  Neither he nor Prowl had the chance to react, before a bigger problem presented itself .  A fierce, Jetfire-sized ball of flames had burst from the ship, and was making a bee-line for Shockwave, murder in his burning optics.

_No!_

This would be Jazz all over again.  Jetfire was an idiot who thought that he could hurt Shockwave in front of Blurr and get away with it.  Well he was _laughably_ wrong!  Blurr would protect his lover at any cost, and Jetfire's life was none too great of one.  He reached for his saw, ready to eliminate the threat in one fell swoop.  But then he hesitated.

He couldn’t do it.  Shockwave had told him not to kill anyone, was worried what it would do to his mental condition, and if Blurr were being honest with himself, he would have to agree with Shockwave's worries.  Killing Jazz had destroyed him.  What would killing Jetfire do?

He wouldn't kill the bot, aggressive or not.  He would find another way.  After all, the last thing he wanted right now was to disappoint Shockwave. 

Instead of the intended assault, Blurr launched himself from the ground, twisting his body in mid-air, and delivered a full-speed flying kick to Jetfire, who was immediately knocked off-course with a surprised yelp.  He flew through the air for several moments before finally colliding with the ground, skidding for several meters, and leaving a smoking trail in his wake.  He didn’t get up.  His flames died altogether, but his plating did not grey.  It was a perfect knockout, no less than Blurr expected from himself.

The second Jetfire hit the ground, Prowl began stumbling his way closer.  Blurr prepared to defend himself again, prepared a second kick, but upon seeing the look on Prowl’s face, gave pause.  Prowl was running away from something.

The sound of an impressed whistle drew his attention.

“Would ya look at you?”  He recognized the modification-heavy bot that stood at the entrance to the ship, watching him with a predatory smile that made Blurr’s plating crawl.  This was Lockdown – he’d seen his picture come up from time-to-time – had even indirectly worked with him once or twice.

“Never seen a bot move like that before – whatever mods you’re packin’ that let you do that would sell for a king’s ransom.  And that’s to say nothing of your body.  You’ll keep my account overflowing for a vorn, at least on the right market.”

Behind him, Shockwave let out a low, possessive growl.  Lockdown couldn’t have heard it, but Blurr did, and it filled him with a strange kind of confidence.  He faced Lockdown, unphased.  Such talk was not unknown to him.  He offered a confident smile.

“Or I could kill you and steal your ship.  Judging by the look on your face, mods or not, you’ll never be able to keep up with me.  I could tear you apart before you have a chance to fire a single shot.”

The motion was subtle, but present nonetheless.  Lockdown had winced at Blurr’s boast – a sign of fear.  Blurr had won the unfought battle  the moment he used his speed to take out Jetfire.  One taste of a fraction of his power, and Lockdown was trembling in his boots.  Of course, appearances were very important to skeezy bot.  He was quick to hide his fear behind a stoic smirk.

“Good luck with that, Kid.  Only  _I_  can pilot my ship.”

“If we can come close to the completion of a functioning space bridge from scrap, I can’t imagine whatever recognition software you’re running will be beyond our grasp.”

Lockdown took pause, for the first time looking past Blurr to Shockwave, recognition dawning in his red optics.  Blurr hastened to step between the two.  The last thing he wanted was one more bot to defend Shockwave from.

Lockdown gave a small chuckle, and for a moment, Blurr feared he’d made a grave mistake, and that Lockdown had picked up on the absurdity of his action.  Why would an Autobot defend a Decepticon?!   That was madness!  And perhaps he _had_ picked up on it.  But if he had, he didn’t say. Instead, he disembarked at a casual saunter, and making his way to Jetfire’s prone form.  With a surprising show of dexterity, given that one of his servos was a hook, he scooped the thin jet up, and threw him over his spiky shoulder, before opening a sweeping arm towards his ship.

“Very well.  Welcome aboard, Captain.”

He gave a respectful nod to Blurr, then made his way back inside, leaving Blurr, Prowl, and Shockwave to follow.

“Don’t drop your guard,” Prowl mumbled.  “Lockdown won’t give up that easy.”

“I’ll cuff him then – lock him in a room.  That'll get him out of the way.”

Prowl shook his head.  “He’s got mods that keep him out of unintentional stasis lock.  Cuffs won’t work.  And the rooms on the ship are programmed to open for his energy signature.  We’d have to hack the ship’s computer to pull that off.  It’s practically impossible to keep Lockdown prisoner on his own ship, by design.”

“Knock him out then,” Blurr said, growing frustrated.  He was _not_ about to be undone by a bot he could defeat in a fraction of a second.  Not again.

“Perhaps.  But if possible, I’d like to find out what’s been going on in the galaxy in our absence first, while he’s still feeling cooperative.  I don’t know if Optimus told you, but we’ve been gone for some seven stellar cycles.”

Blurr didn’t have the energy to feign surprise.  It was time for another lie.  “Yeah, Optimus told me.  I still can’t believe it.”

“You brats comin’?  Or am I gonna have to take off without you?”

The empty threat was enough to leave Shockwave growling once more, this time in fear.  It was time to go.

“I’ll see what I can make him spill.  Then we knock him out, jack his ship, and get out of here.”

“Sounds good to me,” Prowl agreed, though there was a look in his eye that Blurr didn’t like – distrust.  Blurr tried to brush his unease off as paranoia, but it wouldn't leave him alone, and a tiny voice in the back of his processer kept on insisting that sometimes, it was good to be paranoid.  Surely Prowl and Optimus were planning against himself as well, biding their time until he had neutralized the threat Lockdown posed.   He had to be prepared for when that happened.  _Or,_ he could nip the problem in the bud right now.  Again, Blurr found himself reaching for his saw.

“Blurr,” Shockwave warned.  It was enough to bring him to his senses.  The others didn’t trust him,  and they wouldn't any time soon.  So be it then.  If he couldn't find peace of mind through loyal allies, then he’d just have to keep himself alive by being indispensable until the moment he and Shockwave were home free.  And that he _could_ do.

“Let’s do this.”

The interior of the ship was gloomy, dark, and not at all the kind of place that Blurr wanted to be right now.  The entryway had opened into a corridor, with ceilings low enough that Shockwave was forced to crouch in order to avoid scraping his remaining antenna.  Lockdown was currently leading the way to their unknown destination, with Jetfire bobbing up and down on his back.  Blurr and the rest followed closely, though he noticed with a looming dread that he was the only bot among the three who wasn't walking with a limp. 

Enclosed spaces had never been his friend; they were difficult to move around in, and filled him with a deep sense of unease.  If he wasn't careful, Lockdown could make Prowl, and especially Shockwave into his victims, and destroy the little leverage Blurr held over him.  He couldn't allow that to happen.   If there was a time to act, it would be now, before Lockdown found the opportunity to fight back.

“So,” Blurr chirped.  “Lockdown, was it?”

Lockdown chuckled darkly.  “Hard to believe a sound like that comes from such a pretty face.”

Blurr ignored the dig, though he did notice an angry flicker from Shockwave’s usually so controlled EM field.  Blurr tugged at the lead on the stasis cuffs, as a warning, and Shockwave begrudgingly took the hint. 

“Perhaps you’ve forgotten who’s in charge here,” he boasted.  “You’re on your feet right now by my mercy, and if you’d like to stay that way, then I expect you to cooperate.”

“Spoken like a true Decepticon,” Lockdown drawled, his back still facing Blurr.

This time, Blurr  _did_  react.  In a flash, he kicked Lockdown into the nearest wall, not caring that he still held onto Jetfire.

“What did I just say?!” he shrieked.  He remained standing several feet away, not foolish enough to make an attempt at pinning the larger mech.

“Fine,” Lockdown said, peeling himself away from the now-dented wall with a hiss.  “Whatever you want, Boss.”

“Better,” Blurr responded, trying to rein in his temper.  He couldn’t afford to be goaded into doing something stupid, whether reckless or intimidating.  He cycled a vent, then continued his query.

“I’ve been told that more time has passed on the outside than we’ve spent here.  I want to know what’s happened.”

“Do you?” Lockdown said, looking at Blurr as he spoke this time, but only for a moment.  He turned on his heel and continued down the hall, giving no indication that he was going to answer..

“Well?” Blurr pressed.

“Well what?  What do you think happens when a ship like the Orion goes missing?”

“I want to hear it from you.  What’s going on out there?”

They reached a doorway at the end of the hall, which slid open obediently for Lockdown.  Blurr, uncomfortable with stepping through, lingered in the entryway, with the wounded Shockwave and Prowl bracing themselves on the walls behind him.

This room was darker than the hall had been, illuminated only by a narrow beam of light at its center.  Within the beam lay two recharge slabs, with a small operating panel beside them, rather resembling something that could be found in a medbay.  In the darkness beyond, Blurr could make out a few control panels, a vid screen, and shelves overflowing with various knick knacks, a few of which he recognized as common modifications – EMP generators, energy shields, blades and helms and plating.  He tried not to think about where they'd come from. 

Without bothering to boost the lights, Lockdown approached one of the tables, and lay Jetfire down on its surface.  Immediately, several metallic cables burst forth, wrapping themselves around Jetfire's prone form, securing him to the table.

“What are you doing?” Blurr growled.

“Your friend is hurt, in no small part thanks to you.  Figured this was good a place as any to store ‘im ‘til he’s market-ready.”

Blurr cringed at the implications behind those words.  He'd known that Lockdown got up to some shady business on his own, and while slaving had been a suspected part of it, he hadn't had the confirmation until now.  In his years with the Elite Guard, he'd been well-trained to deal with situations of this very nature, but that didn't prevent the notion that he, and the others, may be sold off to an alien halfway across the galaxy for some nefarious purpose any less disturbing.

Lockdown was evidently finished with Jetfire.  He turned around, making his way back to the door, and Blurr scurried to get out of the way.  He may have had the speed to annihilate Lockdown before he knew what had hit him, but he was painfully aware of his own weaknesses.  If Lockdown caught a hold of him, he was done for.  The only way to keep everyone safe, was to maintain his distance.

 “I suppose you’ll be wanting to ditch Shockwave as well.  Probably best to keep ‘em separate, given what we just saw.  We’ll use a storage room.”  Lockdown brushed past, leading the group back down the way they'd come.

“Are you gonna answer my question?  What are you trying to hide from us?”

“Primus, you’re persistent.  I’ll tell you then, if it means so much to you, but you ain’t gonna like it.”  Lockdown took a moment to answer, and when he finally did, it was at a maddeningly slow pace, as though he were stalling (though Blurr acknowledged that he'd never been able to deal with people that spoke slowly.  He was being paranoid again).

“As I’m sure you could guess, ‘Bots blamed the ‘Cons for the loss of their ship.  They led an attack on New Kaon, and the ‘Cons resisted.  Next thing anyone knew, the galaxy was back at war.  Too bad for the Autobots, they'd been growing weak, complacent in their time of peace.  Most of ‘em were useless civilians, and even many of their military mechs had never laid optics on a real ‘Con before.  It was a slaughter.  Some big-name Bots died – Alpha Trion, Ultra Magnus . . .”

Blurr didn’t realize he was shaking until the clatter of his plating reached his audials.  This shouldn't be upsetting him so.  He’d chosen his side, chosen to turn his back on his own people, was prepared to kill, just as those nameless Decepticons had.  And yet still, he couldn't stop the despair consuming him.

How much had Cybertron changed in these past stellar cycles?  How many of the bots that he’d known before were now dead – how many of the bots he’d grown up with?  Trained with?  Worked with?  And why was he so affected by it?  He'd never liked any of them!  And yet here he was, mourning their possible demises.  It made him wonder, did he really have what it took to join Shockwave, to  wreak this sort of havoc with his own servos?

“Did I upset you?  Want me to stop?  We’re here anyway.”

Indeed, they were standing in another doorway, this one to what might have once been a hab suite, but was currently being used to store further mountains of clutter.  At least this room looked like there’d be enough space for Shockwave to stand up if he desired.

With as much force as he could bear to use, Blurr shoved Shockwave forward, trying to play the part of the warden he claimed to be.  But to his surprise, Shockwave didn’t budge.

Shockwave’s broken optic was fixed on the ground, bright enough to let a few sparks escape into the air around him.  The excess energy consumption was a testament to his investment in Lockdown’s story – and why wouldn’t he be excited?  His side had won after all.  He was a protoform receiving his proper designation for the first time, consumed by joy, pride and a bit of anxiety.  Blurr couldn't help but find it a little endearing.

But he had appearances to maintain.

“Shockwave!” he snapped, dragging Shockwave back to the moment for just long enough to duck his head and step through the door, but for some reason, it did not close behind him.  Blurr didn't pay it any mind; Shockwave wasn't going anywhere.  Instead, he returned his attention to Lockdown.

“Is there more?”

“Next part’s the best,” he confirmed.

“Then keep going.”

“Sure thing, Boss,” Lockdown sneered.

                “The Decepticons pushed the Autobots all the way back to Cybertron, leaving a trail of corpses in their wake.  But that’s when the funniest thing happened.

“There was this high-ranked Con, arrogant prick, but a damn good payer . . .”  Blurr felt Shockwave stiffen behind him, tentative elation swept away in an instant.  Shockwave had seen the end of this story from so few clues, but Blurr was completely in the dark.

“S _omehow,_ the guy managed to gather up a little army of circus freaks, giving him just enough muscle to be a threat," Lockdown continued, his tone of voice implying that he knew _exactly_ how this had happened.  " Megatron weak from battle, he died without putting up much of a fight.”

There was a heavy clang from behind, and the whole ship shuddered in response.

“Shockwave!” Blurr screamed, whirling around.  Shockwave’s legs had given out beneath him, his optic flickered weakly, unfocused, while the rest of him remained hunched over, as if he verged on passing out again.  He'd been struggling to remain on his pedes all afternoon; hearing such news must have been the last straw.

A million miles away, Lockdown continued talking, but Blurr could barely register the words.  All that mattered right now was Shockwave, broken, unresponsive Shockwave.  Blur paced back and forth frantically, unsure of what to do.

“Idiot thought that killing Megatron would be enough to become leader of the Decepticons.  But rather than bow before his might, a good third of the Decepticon forces decided to turn on him, and avenge their fallen leader.  Divided as they were, the Autobots were able to give ‘em the boot.

“Now we got a three-way war – the Autobots, the Loyalists, and the Radicals, and the whole galaxy is feelin’ it.  Competition’s fierce these days; folks are eager to hire bounty hunters only from within their own factions, which is a problem for me.  I've been stickin' to more consistent markets these days by necessity . . .”

Blurr felt the hit before he heard Prowl’s warning cry.  All at once, the energy fled his body as an electromagnetic pulse blew through his circuits.  He stumbled forward, reaching out for Shockwave, but instead found himself easily scooped up under Lockdown’s arm.

“Shockwave,” he mumbled weakly, a cry for help.  It didn’t matter if Shockwave was on his last legs, there was no way he’d allow Lockdown to hurt Blurr.  But Shockwave didn’t react at all.  Through his blurring optics, he could see his once-mighty lover, regarding him only with a blind confusion.

With a sudden whirr of electronic mechanisms, the door slammed shut, cutting Blurr off from his last true ally.  He tried feebly to struggle and kick, but his body was too heavy – mind too clouded.

He heard a shriek of metal, of protoform, being torn apart, and belatedly realized that it was coming from his own body.  He looked down to find Lockdown’s hook half-buried in his thigh, tearing through the delicate wiring as easy as foil, leaving energon to gush freely down his leg.  He didn’t feel a thing.

In another universe, he could hear Prowl shouting something, but what it was, he couldn't make out, and in the end it didn’t matter.  The pulse had corrupted its way through his undersized frame in a flash, but he knew from experience that it would pass through his system quickly enough.  Most things did.  He just had to endure its after-effects in the meantime.

A door opened somewhere in his vicinity, though where was anyone's guess.  His spatial programming had failed; he couldn’t get his bearings.  He didn't even notice when he was shoved into the room beyond said door, and barely registered hitting the floor afterwards.  By the time it slid shut behind him, Blurr was completely out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It will be a miracle if I can pull all this off x.x


	42. This Imperfect World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bulkhead thought he'd never see Bumblebee again. He is overjoyed to be proven wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I actually sat down and worked out my timeline for this story, and . . . wow. They have not been here very long, have they? This is even after I had to extend it by a few days due to an oversight early on. Things that happened yesterday in-universe were written months ago for me. It's so hard to keep track of this. Anyway, I'll be going back and making sure things are consistent, 'cause I am good at this.

Bulkhead was a mess.  Here he was, stuck in the middle of the forest, unable to transform, and alone with a Decepticon.  Optimus had really thrown him to the wolves.  But much to his surprise (and relief), Blackarachnia didn’t seem interested in murdering him, which was strange, ‘cause it felt exactly like the kind of thing she should be doing.

“Well, isn’t that just Prime?” she groaned, leaning up against a tree.  She was paying no attention to Bulkhead, and he preferred to keep it that way.  Unfortunately, it wasn't long before the spider changed her mind.

“So . . .?”

Bulkhead puttered, glad for his defensive bulk, and simultaneously wishing he was small enough to hide.  There was no way he was going to survive this.

“So . . . what?”  He immediately regretted the way the words made him sound like an idiot.  He couldn’t afford to look dumb right now.  Not in front of such a threatening opponent.

“So your leader ditches you, your best friend’s dead, and you killed a mech to avenge him, there’s a big, scary Decepticon on the loose, and you’re stuck here with little old me.  Making matters worse is your unfortunate lack of limbs, keeping you locked in alt mode.  I guess what I'm trying to figure out is, what now?”

“Uh,” Bulkhead said, again feeling incredibly stupid.

Blackarachnia hissed through gritted teeth.  “Of course.  I get stuck with the monoformer idiot.  Just my luck.”

“Er, you don’t have to stay with me,” Bulkhead replied, with more than a  _bit_  of an ulterior motive.  _Please leave, please leave, please leave._

“Weren't you listening?  Shockwave is out there.  And he wants me dead.  I’m going nowhere on my own until I’m well enough to fight a bot five times my size, or I have undeniable proof that he is dead.  Or severely damaged.  I’ll accept damaged.”

“I don’t think I’m gonna be of much help if he does show up,” Bulkhead said with a shudder.  Shockwave was not a mech he  _ever_  wanted to fight, not after witnessing the aftermath of one of his little jaunts first hand.

“Of course you will be!” she laughed.  “Or are you unfamiliar with the term ‘distraction?’”

Bulkhead sank down on his wheels in shame, or he tried to.  Without the balance afforded to him by his front axle, he stumbled, before nose-diving straight into the dirt.  Blackarachnia’s laughter did nothing to ease the blow.

But then she stopped, choking on the sound, replacing it with a startled cry of, “No fragging way!”

“What?  What is it?”  Bulkhead tried to wiggle himself upright, but managed no success.  At least Blackarachnia was feeling generous at the moment to share.

“It’s a ship, coming in from space!”

“What?!”  Surely, the rude Decepticon was pulling his missing leg, taking advantage of his embarrassing lack of vision from this angle to get his hopes up.  But she sounded so sincere.  “What kind of ship?”

“What kind?  What does it matter?”

“Autobot or Decepticon?”

“Neither,” she said after a moment.  “It’s an unmarked IG-2000 class vessel, modified, heavy artillery . . .” she trailed off, as though a thought had struck her.

“Why can’t I hear it?  You’re not making this up, are you?”

She scoffed.  “Why would I do something like that?  It’s a smuggler’s vessel, or specifically the Death’s Head, captained by one Lockdown of the Praxian slums, which means we’re not really all that saved.  Primus knows that  _I_  have no money.”

Bulkhead tried driving forward, nose to the ground in a hopeless effort to right himself.  He barely budged.  Maybe reverse would fare him better?

“Are you even listening?”

“I am,” he acknowledged.  “But I don’t got anything to add.  I don’t even know who this Lockdown is, or why he’s bad news or anything.  And I feel ridiculous trying to talk to you like this.”

Blackarachnia groaned.  “We really need to find your missing limbs.  Maybe Optimus can lend you an extra set of wheels?”

Speak of the devil, his comm sounded in his audial at that exact moment – a call from Optimus.  He'd left them in quite the rage.  Had he changed his mind already?

“Hello?”

“Bulkhead!  Thank the Allspark!  I found him!”

“What?”  Optimus sounded excited, a marked difference from earlier.  What could've caused such a change? Bulkhead had an idea, but he was too afraid to hope.  Could it be?

“Bumblebee’s alive!  He’s pretty beat up, but he’s still with us.  I wanted you to know.”

Bulkhead thought he would cry, had he been capable of the action.  Bumblebee wasn’t dead!  Bumblebee was alive, and Bulkhead could see him again!  Could face him down . . . as a murderer.  His fuel ran cold.

“Thank you, Optimus,” Bulkhead said, voice faint.

“Optimus?”  Blackarachnia skittered closer.  He wasn’t sure why.  This conversation was private.  “What’s the lil' sparkling have to say for himself?”

“That Bumblebee’s alive,” he answered, matter of fact.

“Well,” Blackarachnia scoffed.  “Looks like you’ve killed an innocent bot then.  How does that feel?”

Bulkhead’s engine growled; he was in no mood to deal with the philosophy of morality right now, nor to Blackarachnia’s mockery.  And he certainly wasn't ready to relive the first-hand evidence he had that, though Waspinator had not been guilty of murder, he was in no way innocent.  Red flashed before vision, vicious claws, the shriek of metal, and so much pain . . . He revved his engine harder to clear away the wicked memories.  “Shut up!  I’m trying to listen.”

“Is that Blackarachnia with you?”

“Yeah, she’s here.”

Optimus didn’t answer for a moment.  If Bulkhead had to guess, he'd imagine that Optimus was realizing just how risky his earlier stunt had been, how easily he might have lost Bulkhead to his negligence.  But Bulkhead didn't like to make assumptions; Optimus was probably just trying to find something to say.

“Optimus?”

“Look,” he said at last.  “I’m sorry for losing my temper.  I’m sorry for walking out on you, and I’m sorry for leaving you with a potentially dangerous enemy.  It was petty of me.  And not something I should have ever done to one of my crew.”

Bulkhead protested, however, voice more confidant now.  “You were able to find Bumblebee, and that’s all that matters to me.”

“Yes,” Optimus agreed.  “I would, however, like to have a discussion with you later.”

“Okay.”  It wasn’t something Bulkhead was looking forward to, but their spat had nearly demolished what little rapport the group had retained, and Optimus hadn’t been the only bot at fault.

“And there is one more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Did you see that ship just now?”

“Yeah.”

“Bumblebee recognized it as belonging to the bot who gave him the bomb.  This is our best shot at getting home, but it may be a bigger challenge than I’d hoped.”

“Yeah, Blackarachnia said something similar.”

“We’ll need a plan to take care of this.  We’re rendezvousing with the others at the ship, but I’d like to meet up with you guys first.  Bumblebee needs some medical attention before he goes anywhere, and Blackarachnia still has my med kit.  We can discuss strategy at the same time.”

“Ah, understood.”  He was worried.  Bumblebee was alive, and that was wonderful; he hadn’t considered the kind of shape he’d be in after his run-in with a giant, killer wasp, however.  “We’ll wait here for your arrival.”

“Thanks.  Optimus out.”

Blackarachnia was standing beside his sunken nose, tapping her pede impatiently, ready to leap on him the moment he hung up.  “Well?”

“Well what?”

“You’ve included me in your conversation.  It’s my right to know what you’re talking about.”

Bulkhead was hesitant.  He recalled Blackarachnia’s earlier reaction to the ship – how nervous she'd become once she realized who it belonged to.  The last thing he wanted was to scare her away.  They needed her to help Bumblebee.  “He’s coming here with Bumblebee.  Wants to fix him up a bit, and then figure what we’re going to do about that ship.”

“Oh,” she sighed.  “Because Optimus is so well-known for his decision making skills.  Our best bet is to tell Lockdown to frag off and space bridge outta here.”

“There’s a space bridge?  Since when?”  Everyone on this island had something to hide; nothing should've surprised him at this point.  And yet, something like _that_ would've been nice to know about.

“Ugh.  It’s useless talking to you.  Fine.  We’ll wait on Optimus.  I’ll hear him out, and if his plan isn’t awful, I’ll go along with it.  Maybe.”

“Think you could help me up before he gets here?”

“Not on your life.”

~~~

Bulkhead hadn’t been prepared to see Bumblebee like this – pale and broken, dangling limply in Optimus’s arms.

“Little Buddy!” he cried out.  At the sound of Bulkhead’s voice, Bumblebee’s optics flickered on, and he offered his friend a weak smile.

“Pit, look at the kid!” Blackarachnia hissed.  “It’d be a mercy to put him outta his misery.”

“Blackarachnia,” Optimus warned.

“Right, not how you softsparks roll.  And this is why you lost the war.”

“What?”  Optimus was so surprised, he forgot to be angry. Bulkhead too, didn't know what to make of the comment.  The Autobots had _won_ the great war.  What sort of nonsense were they _teaching_ Decepticons in their corner of the galaxy?

“Just bring him over here.  Kid’s petering out – you can see his brain module, for Pit’s sake!”  Optimus obeyed, though offered Blackarachnia a warning look.

“I promise not to kill him, or do anything otherwise untoward.  But come on!  Are you gonna let his life rest with  _your_  medical skills?  Now hurry, before you have another thing to mope about.”

It wasn’t an ideal situation by any stretch of the imagination, but what choice did they have?  Gently, Optimus lay Bumblebee on the forest floor, and Blackarachnia, medkit in hand, got to work.

Bulkhead couldn’t bear not to watch, couldn’t bear to leave his best little buddy at the mercy of that mad-femme, but he was also still stuck with his nose half-buried in the ground.  Some friend he was.  What a disgrace.  His engine whirred in frustration.

The next thing he knew, the world was righting itself, a heavy weight was pushing down on his tail, putting him back on four wheels.

“Thanks,” he muttered.  Optimus moved around to his front side, watching him with a critical optic.

“We really need a better solution for this,” he gestured vaguely towards the empty space beneath Bulkhead's cabin.

“I think we need a _lot_ of things,” Bulkhead agreed.

“Hey!” Blackarachnia paused in her work to shout at the pair.  “If you’re gonna whine, do it away from me.  It’s very distracting.”

Bulkhead didn’t like the idea of leaving Blackarachnia alone with Bumblebee, but Optimus was stepping away, glancing expectantly at Bulkhead.   He was supposed to follow, and he wasn’t in the mood to rebel.  On teetering wheels, he puttered after Optimus, until they were just out of earshot, but to Bulkhead’s relief, close enough to keep an optic on things.

“I don’t like this Optimus, and I don’t trust  _her_.”

Optimus shook his head with a sigh.  “You’re right not to, but she’s the best asset we have right now.  I have no doubt that she’ll skip out on us the moment it becomes convenient, but right now, she needs us as much as we need her – for Bumblebee's sake especially.

“We have a sad lack of healthy bots right now, and an even sadder lack of medics.  I don’t know what Prowl can do, _I_ know very little, Jetfire knows more than me, but can’t do much with only one arm, you and Bumblebee have no medical training, and I would _not_ trust Blurr with delicate operations at the moment.  Primus, I miss Ratchet.”

“Me too,” Bulkhead agreed, resisting the urge to slump.  He remembered all-too-well where that had led last time.

“Listen,” Optimus said, after a moment filled with the distant sound of medical tools buzzing.  “About earlier . . .”

“It’s okay,” Bulkhead replied.  “Bumblebee’s alive, so it doesn’t really matter.”

“But it does,” Optimus insisted.  “Was I wrong to leave?  Yes.  Pit, if I’d been smart, I would have never brought you to that cliff.”

Bulkhead rumbled in annoyance.  “If you hadn’t, then you never would have found Bee.”

“I acknowledge that,” Optimus nodded, though his face was stern.  “But one lucky happenstance does not mean I should repeat such actions in the future.  And the same goes for you.”

Bulkhead had known this was coming, but it didn’t make him any less reluctant to hear it.  He said nothing.

“You’re important Bulkhead – your opinions are important, but we’re in a precarious situation right now.  We can’t afford to be speaking in seven different voices.

“I am here as a Prime to listen to you, all of you, and make decisions based on your words, to benefit the group.  But it doesn’t work if you don’t listen too.  We’re about to do something very dangerous, something that I would not allow a civilian to engage in were our situation less desperate.  If we don’t act as one unit, then there’s a very real chance that we’ll fail – that one of us –  _all_  of us will die.  Do you understand?”

“I don’t think I was wrong,” Bulkhead muttered, for once glad that he didn’t have a face to betray him.

“And that is my fault.  I will be a better leader.  I won’t let my emotions make decisions for me anymore.  But you have to promise to follow orders.  If you don’t trust _my_ judgment, we can bring in someone else to lead.  Someone you _would._ ”

“I want to follow Jazz,” Bulkhead said.  Jazz was smart and calm and experienced.  He’d be the perfect leader.

Optimus paused, his face turning to stone.  “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

“Why’s that?”  Bulkhead was afraid to hear the answer, but he already had a guess.

“Because Shockwave killed him.  It’s down to you, me, Bumblebee, Prowl, Jetfire, and Blurr.”

This time, Bulkhead did sink, but Optimus caught him before he could tip over.  This was nuts.  Jazz had been the most fit to survive out of the lot of them.  If he’d been killed, then where did that leave everybody else?  Bulkhead wasn’t a military mech.  He wasn’t equipped to handle these situations.

“Bulkhead.”  Optimus’s voice was commanding, yet somehow he found it soothing still.  He wasn’t sure about this.  Until now, Optimus hadn’t made the best case for leadership.  Half the group was dead, and the rest injured, and true, much of that had been Sentinel's responsibility, but Optimus hadn't exactly been absent during that time.  But Bulkhead didn’t think Optimus had been wrong.  They needed a leader right now, and who else was it going to be?  Mysterious and shady Prowl?  Possible turncoat Blurr?  _Blackarachnia_?  Optimus was the best choice.  He was the only choice.

“I understand.  I’ll listen to you, unless it’s something way off-base.”

“I’ll hold you to it,” said Optimus.

In a perfect world, Bumblebee would have gotten the full medical attention he needed, but Blackarachnia was under-equipped, and perhaps a little under-motivated.  In what felt like far too little time, she was done, and Bumblebee was more-or-less back on his feet.

She’d repaired the worst of the damage – covered the hole in his head with instant welds, patched as much of the bleeding as she could, and had partially hammered out his caved-in chest.  But he was far from well.  Yes, in a perfect world, Bumblebee would be in an infirmary, lying on a medical slab, attended to by the best doctors the Autobots had, and getting some much-needed rest.  In a  _perfect_  world, Bumblebee wouldn’t be injured at all.  But the world was not perfect.  They were _here_ , in this dirty, gritty, imperfect place where innocent bots died, and Bumblebee was suffering for no reason at all.  He wanted to give up on all of it.

“Hey,” Bumblebee squeaked, waving his partially-remaining servo.

“I’ll leave the two of you alone,” Optimus said with a smile, before making his way over to Blackarachnia.

“Little Buddy.”  Bulkhead didn’t know what else to say.  He wanted to apologize, to ask after Bumblebee’s welfare, to fret and sob and swear that he’d never again let him out of his sight.  But somehow, none of that seemed right.

“I’m sorry I let that happen to you.  He hurt you because of me.  I was so scared I’d die, but I was even more scared that  _you_  would die – I thought I’d never see you again and, and – you’re in alt mode?  Why are you in alt mode?  It’s cause of what he did to you, right?  This is all my fault!”

Bumblebee had voiced nearly everything that Bulkhead had wanted to; it was perhaps the first time he’d ever seen his friend express genuine selfless remorse.  Suddenly, Bulkhead was able to find his words.

“No.  No, I’m fine.  Don’t worry about me.  And don’t blame yourself for any of it.  This wasn’t your fault, it was Wasp’s – Waspinator’s.”

Bumblebee’s dim, flickering optics widened at the name.  “Waspinator!  He’s still out here, isn't he?!  He’s gonna come back for me!  Everyone’s gonna get hurt again, ‘cause I made a stupid mistake!”  He was backing away on trembling legs; it made Bulkhead long to run over, scoop the little guy into his arms, and hold on tight, until he was safe and smiling again.  But the obvious prevented him from  _that_  end.  So he did the next best thing.

“Waspinator can’t hurt anyone anymore.”

“No!  No, you don’t get it!  I'm not some stupid kid!  I can tell when I'm being coddled!  Optimus said the _same damn thing,_ because I was dying, and he didn't want to upset me, but I know!  I know that Waspinator's still alive and he wants to kill me!  He thinks  _I’m_  the one who blew up the ship!  He’ll keep coming back again and again until I’m dead – or everyone else is!”

“No,” Bulkhead protested, voice stern enough to bring Bumblebee to his senses.  “He can’t hurt you because he’s dead.  I killed him.”

Bumblebee stopped retreating.  “What?”

“I just – I don’t know.  Optimus wanted to keep him prisoner, but I – well, after all he’d done to me, after all he’d done to  _you_ , I couldn’t deal with it.  I drove him off the exact same cliff.

“Optimus was mad – I’d disobeyed his orders, and maybe I was wrong to kill him, but it felt so right, to finally stop sitting around and  _do_  something for the good of the group.  I’m not sorry I killed him – maybe I should be, I mean, Itook a _life_.  That’s the worst thing you can do, right?  But somehow, all I feel is satisfaction.”

The look in Bumblebee’s optics was sorrowful and broken.  And once again, he proved that he and Bulkhead had the same thought processes, for he stumbled forward, and wrapped his tiny arms around Bulkhead's massive frame as best he could, burying his face in that thick chassis.  “This is so messed up.”

“Yeah,” Bulkhead agreed, trying his best not to tip over.  “It is.  I’m sorry.”

“What?!”  The sound of Optimus’s livid voice dragged the pair from their much-needed dialogue, and back to reality.

“Oh come on, what did you  _think_  was gonna happen?  You  _were_  kind of a big deal.  Well, not _you_ specifically, but your ship was.”

“What’s up?” Bumblebee asked, leaning heavily on Bulkhead.

Optimus looked as though he’d seen a ghost, weakly stuttering, “The war . . .”

“He found out what happened after you guys vanished from all time and space, namely that the galaxy’s been ravaged by a three-way war, and the Autobots barely exist anymore.”

Optimus wasn’t the only one shocked.

“How?” Bulkhead demanded.  “Barely any time has passed at all!  Maybe 16 solar cycles?”

“Hmmm, no.  Not even a little.  Lockdown's here, so I’m guessing it’s been about . . . nine stellar cycles?  Maybe less?”  That was a strange thing for the spider to say.

“What do you mean?  What’s your role in this?” Optimus demanded.  “You said you’d been here for half a vorn!  How could you –“ he cut himself off, slowly catching on.

Blackarachnia shot him a coy smile.  “I honestly don’t know anymore.  I remember your ship disappearing, well hearing about it.  It  _was_  sort of a big deal.  From there, I did my part to help the war effort, and then yadda yadda, you know the rest.”

“You’re from the future,” Optimus said, staring as though he was thoroughly done with this nonsense.

“It would seem that way.”

“And you figured out when we are now, based on 'Lockdown’s' presence?  How did you know that?  Unless . . . ?”

“I know when that immoral aft finally bites it, but I’ve already said too much.  Can’t risk creating a paradox, or whatever.”

“Blackarachnia!” Optimus snapped, but she was unswayed.

“Look, I’m not gonna tell you what happens to your lot, because I don’t know.  I wasn’t exactly in a position to have Autobot broadcasts forwarded directly to my brain module.  And in case you’ve forgotten, we’re not on the same side.  I’m not going to give you information that could hurt  _my_ allies, let alone _me_.  Besides, I don’t know how any of this time travel nonsense even works.  Could be our presence has already altered history.  Who knows?  I made an educated guess as to how long it’s been since your arrival on this world, no more, no less.  Now drop it.”

Optimus actually complied with her wishes this time.  “Very well.  I won’t press.  Just tell us if there’s anything else we need to know before storming the ship.”

“Okay,” she said with a flick of her upper legs.  “Maybe, don’t do it.”

“Blackarachnia –“

“What?  I’m serious.  This guy’s not a pushover; he’s not about to be taken out by a handful of half-dead Autobot civilians. You’re better off waiting on the space bridge.”

But Optimus didn’t back down either.  “And when will that be done?”

“Hard to say.  Could be another couple lunar cycles if the damage it took from our fight was severe, which given my luck, it probably was.  Of course, who knows what happened to it when Jazz fought him?  Could be worse.”  She was clearly displeased by this fact.

“We can’t wait that long!  We're dropping like flies!”

“But why can't we?” Bumblebee squeaked, pulling away from Bulkhead.  “If what the spider lady says is true, then what is there even left for us to go back to?  More death?  I’ve had my fill here, thanks.”

For once, he and Bulkhead were not in agreement.  “We need medical attention, Little Buddy.  We’ll die if we stay here.  And Optimus is right.  Sixteen solar cycles has wiped out half the group already.  No way we'll be able to play nice for much longer.”

“And we’ll die if we go back!  What’s the point?!”

“The point,” Optimus said, interrupting, “is that these are  _our_  people and this is  _our_ fight.  Whether we’re to blame or not, this mess began because of us, through our negligence, our fear, our weakness, and thus, it is our obligation to fight back.  We’ve already lost many of our own – our friends, our brothers – Jazz, Ratchet, Cliffjumper and Jetstorm and Sentinel, Wasp,” he said with a pointed stare at Bulkhead.  “And Ironhide too.  And Blaster, and Swerve, and all of the others.  If there’s any way I can keep more bots from dying, I will jump at the chance.”

It  _was_  a compelling speech.  Bulkhead was moved, and even Bumblebee looked away with a resigned pout.  But not unexpectedly, Blackarachnia was not on board.

“Touching.  Of course, that ignores the fact that you’re risking the lives of your own crew to reach that end.”

Optimus didn’t waste time before answering.  “I won’t force them to fight.  Would I like them to join me?  Yes, of course.  But I’m not going to order anyone else to die for me.”

She scoffed.  “Of course.   _One_  was enough.”  What did _that_ mean?

“Yes,” said Optimus.  “It was.”  Bulkhead was afraid to ask, but Optimus no longer appeared to be in a mood for keeping secrets.  He turned his attention to Bulkhead and Bumblebee.

“Jazz died on my order for him to take down Shockwave.  I don’t know how it happened, but I do know that I shouldn’t have allowed it to happen – shouldn’t have sent him off on his own.  I fully acknowledge that his death is my fault.”

Bulkhead didn’t know how to feel about any of this.  He could barely accept that Jazz was dead, but to hear that he’d died on Optimus’s orders?  It didn’t do much to bolster his already abysmal confidence in the Prime.

“Oh please,” Blackarachnia groaned.  “There you go again with that self-sacrificing Autobot bullshit of yours.  Pit, I bet that attitude’s why  _you_  were demoted to cruise ship captain, while Sentinel got to go off and lead the Elite Guard.”

“Blackarachnia,” Optimus said, confused, startled, wary.

“Don’t listen to him, kiddos.   _I_  was the one who insisted he send your friend to face down Shockwave.  He was supposed to be easy-pickings; don’t know  _how_  Mr. Smooth Criminal managed to fuck  _that_  up.  But there you go.  I gave the order, Shockwave did the deed, who even cares?”

Optimus was still dumbstruck.  “Why are you –“

She cut him off.  “I don’t have the patience for this kind of nonsense, and if  _you_  are gonna insist on running into that death trap of a ship, the last thing you need are your troops thinking you can’t make good decisions – not that  _I_  think you’re capable of making good decisions.”

Optimus quirked an optic ridge at the spider, but otherwise didn’t reply.  “Very well then.  Guilt won’t bring Jazz back.  The only bot to blame that matters right now is his direct killer, Shockwave.  I wish that sentiment could keep us safe, but the fact is, I cannot promise that all of us will survive what comes next.  But I also know that I cannot sit around here while my people are suffering from a mess that  _I_  helped to create.  You don’t have to come with me, I won’t punish you for it.  If we somehow manage to survive, then I will be sure to come back for you.  But Shockwave is still at large, and we  _will_  have a better chance of survival if we stick together.  And so I have to know.  Are you in?”

Bulkhead Hesitated.  The fact of the matter was, even after all he’d said, Bulkhead didn’t have a lot of faith in the Prime, and nothing but victory could change that.  The question was, was he willing to stake his life – Bumblebee’s life on the chance to find out if Optimus could back up his big talk?  Then again, with no arms, no legs, and a barely functional alt mode, what could Bulkhead even do to help?

“I’m in!”  Bumblebee stood tall as his battered frame allowed, determination in his flickering optics.  He was already knocking on Death's door; why was he so eager to force his way in?

“Little Buddy . . .”

“I’m not a coward, I’m not weak, I’m not some sniveling protoform who’s gonna hide out in a cave and hope that everything turns out all right.  Jazz believed in me – sent his dying message to  _me_!  No way in the Pit am I gonna disappoint him by giving up without a fight!” 

“Bumblebee,” Optimus said, awe carved into his face plates.  And it was well-placed.  Bulkhead would’ve worn the same expression had he a face.

The fact of the matter was, Bumblebee  _was,_  by nature, a coward, weak and childish, he always had been.  But the island had forced him to change.  He’d grown so much in the past weeks, he was nearly unrecognizable as the same lazy bot whose negligence had destroyed the Orion.  It was quite the inspiration.

“I think I may be leaking some optical lubricant,” Blackarachnia mocked.  “What a beautiful display of bravery and honor, from the tiniest Autobot of all.”

“Hey!” he snarled.  Okay, maybe he wasn’t  _that_  different.  Blackarachnia waved a dismissive hand.

“Relax.  Either I’ve blown a fuse, or the thought of a little punk like you showing more spine than me stings at my pride  _just_  enough to piss me off.  Either way, I guess I’m in.   _Someone_  has to be the brains of the operation – Primus knows you need it.”

“Are you serious?” Optimus asked, again in awe.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” she retorted.  “I may not want to deal with Lockdown, but if Shockwave can take out your best agent after what  _I_  did to him, well – it’s clear who I’d rather face.”  She folded her arms over her chest, irritation in her alien feature, though Bulkhead suspected it was only a mask for her fear.   _He_  would’ve been terrified to be in her position.

“Well, I guess that just leaves Torso Boy.”

“Bulkhead?” Bumblebee questioned, looking like a lost cyberkitten.  In fact, it appeared all optics were on Bulkhead now.  He didn’t like being the center of attention, and even less did he like the thought of going into a dangerous situation helpless as he was.  He couldn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he said.  “I’m sorry, I just – I can’t.” 

Predictably, Bumblebee protested, Optimus was understanding, and Blackarachnia spoke the blunt truth.

“Bulkhead, come on!  You  _have_  to come.”

“It’s all right.  We’ll come back for you.”

“Probably for the best.  What exactly do you think you’re gonna do without any limbs?  Pit, you can barely emote without toppling over.”

Bumblebee approached, his tiny, mangled hand wrapping around Bulkhead’s fender.  It pained him to feel how very weak that grip was.  “Why?  Why won’t you come?”

Again, Bulkhead wished he could reach out, wrap his arms around his best friend.  Pit, it may well be the last time he ever saw him.  “Blackarachnia's right.  I’m useless like this.  I can’t fight – I can barely move.  You guys will need to go fast, and I’ll just get in the way – put you all at risk.

“Besides,” he added, nerves growing weaker.  “I’m not brave like you, or noble, or even all that smart.  The truth is, I  _am_  a coward.  I  _am_  weak.  And I’ve never been a doer; you know that.  I’m sorry – I’m better off here, out of the way.”

“But –“ Bumblebee tried to protest, but Bulkhead backed away, out of his grasp.

“I’m sorry.”

“Leave him to it, Kid,” Blackarachnia said.  “He’s made up his mind, and we’ve made up ours.  Let’s stop with the whining and actually get something done.”  She turned on her heel, and began the journey further into the woods, in the direction of their campsite.  It must’ve been where Lockdown’s ship was.

“Good luck, Bulkhead,” Optimus said with a respectful nod, before following after the spider.

Bumblebee, however, was hesitant to leave.  “Come  _on_  Bulkhead.  We need you!”

“You don’t though.  You’re better than me, Bumblebee.  I see that now.  Don't argue with me, you know it's true.  And that's okay.  I believe in you – you’re gonna go to that ship and you're annoy Lockdown into submission –”

“Hey!” Bumblebee protested, half-heartedly.  Bulkhead chuckled.  The little guy looked more alive right now than he had all cycle.  It was a refreshing sight; almost made him forget just how bad off he really was.

“And you're gonna come back to me,” he concluded.  “You’re too stubborn to give up, and too stubborn to die, that much is clear.  You’re gonna win, Bee, and we’re all gonna go back home and fight the fight and beat up the Decepticons.  But I can’t go with you right now.  I’ll be fine here, but you should go on ahead.”

“But –“

“Kid, are you coming or not?”

Bumblebee turned away at Blackarachnia’s words.  “Be right there,” he called out.  Moving as quickly as he could, he approached Bulkhead, leaning his forehead on his hood.

“I’ll be back for you.  I promise.”  And then he tottered off, to join the others in their impossible mission, leaving Bulkhead all alone in the empty forest.


	43. Open Book

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl is left at Lockdown's mercy. But he has a way out, if he's willing to go that far.

He’d forgotten how brutal the EMP generator was when used as a weapon.  A mech of Lockdown's stature didn’t stand a chance against it, let alone a lightweight like Blurr, or even himself.  He watched with helpless disgust as Lockdown dragged the feebly struggling bot away from Shockwave, watched as he dug his hook into the thin protoform of a kicking thigh, watched as he rent a tear in the material, leaving a rain of sparks and a gush of energon in his wake, and watched as his alleged ally was dragged into a cramped holding room, as the door slammed shut behind him.

“There.  That takes care of  _that_  little annoyance.”

“You idiot!” Prowl hissed, finding his voice at last.  “He’s going to bleed to death if you leave him like that.”

Lockdown offered a disinterested shrug in response.  “Racer frames heal quickly; he’ll be fine.  Trust me, I’m not gonna let my meal ticket take any more damage than necessary.  But it was more important that I get control back where it belongs."

“And you wonder why I can’t stand you.”

Lockdown said nothing in response, only gave a deep chuckle before turning his back on the scene.  “So tell me, when do you think the rest of your buddies will be showing up?”

“They won’t be,” Prowl said, tone even, neutral.  With any luck, he could convince Lockdown to fly out of here without taking  _everyone_.  There was still a space bridge on the island – the others could use  _that_  to escape.

“You’re tellin’ me that the first sign of Cybertronian life your lot has seen in who knows _how_ long ain’t enough to drag your friends out of hiding?  What, they all missing a couple a limbs or something?”

“You’d be surprised.”

It was clear that Lockdown wasn’t going to fall for it so easily.  But Prowl didn’t know what else to do.  He had very little hope of saving Jetfire or Blurr at this point, but he had every intention of keeping the others out of Lockdown’s greedy clutches.  Somehow.

“You’re funny, Kid.  But here’s my guess.  They’re all on their way right now, ready for the taking.  So this is what I’m gonna do: I’m gonna go back to the bridge, hop on the surveillance monitors, and wait.”

“What about me?”

“What about you?  Do you want me to lock you up?  You’re not going anywhere, so why bother?  I can feel your weakness, Prowl.  You can put on a brave face and try to hide it, but there's  no foolin' me.  You're barely standin' up right now.  And, if you _do_ get the idiotic urge to escape, well, I'll see you, and I will stop you. 

"And don't go thinkin' you can call your buddies ahead to warn them.  I've installed a couple communications jammers since you've been gone.  You're not callin' anyone not already in the ship.  So feel free to do what you want.  I got nothing to fear.”  He turned around, shooting Prowl a lazy wave over his shoulder, before disappearing to the bridge.

He was right of course, a fact that did much to upset Prowl.  From inside the ship, he had no way of warning the others, and if he tried to leave, Lockdown, or his own failing body, would stop him.  And with the rooms set to open only for Lockdown’s energy signature, Prowl couldn’t even attempt to free his friends already inside.

“Quite the conundrum, isn’t it?”

Had Prowl been the type of mech to startle, then the sudden sound of Shockwave’s voice, muffled by the thick door would have made him jump.  It was an unpleasant sound – eerily similar to Longarm’s voice, but deeper, darker, with traces of a long-buried Tarnian accent.  Prowl considered ignoring the mech.  He was a known manipulator, who had killed four mechs on the island alone (allegedly).  Speaking with him was a risk in itself.  And yet he second-guessed his decision, for though Shockwave was a dangerous mech, he was also supposed to be intelligent, perhaps intelligent enough to find a way out of this predicament.

“Say what you mean,” Prowl said, tone carefully neutral.  “I don’t have the energy for guessing games.”

“No,” Shockwave agreed, “I suppose not.  But it is not my intention to be cryptic, only to lament.  It is shameful that I have fallen into this trap.  Were Lord Megatron still alive, surely he would punish me for my indiscretion.”

“It would be well-earned,” Prowl growled.

“Ah, you're referring to the murders.  Yes, I suppose you crave justice for the loss of your friends.  And you may-yet have it.  It merely depends on who is willing to pay the highest sum for the late Megatron’s most loyal of lieutenants.”

Prowl supposed if there was any silver lining to their situation, that would be it.  If Lockdown had spoken the truth, and the world outside of Energoa had been divided into Autobots, Decepticon Loyalists, and Decepticon Radicals, then two thirds of their species would want Shockwave imprisoned, if not dead.  And as for the third – well, Megatron had never been known for rescuing his captive soldiers, and his followers likely shared the same views.  The chances of Shockwave having a happy ending were slim to none.

But future misery didn't change Prowl's current need to see the monster pay for his crimes, as much as such a notion conflicted with the teachings of Master Yoketron.  Unwilling and unable to physically hurt Shockwave, he settled for half-hearted insults instead.

“You disgust me.” 

“Many have said the same.  It does not bother me.”

And that was when a particularly vindictive thought struck Prowl, one that would hurt for sure, if earlier behavior was any indication.  “I can't tell what Blurr sees in you.”

It was difficult to hear clearly through the door, but it sounded as though Shockwave had let out a deep growl.  The sound was short-lived, however.

“Who’s to say he sees anything in me?”

“Bah!” Prowl scoffed.  “You’re going to pretend you two aren’t a pair after what just happened?  He lost it when you got hurt, though it seems the same couldn’t be said of you.”

Shockwave took his time responding, as though he needed a moment to compose himself.  It was petty, yes, but Shockwave's discomposure made Prowl feel strong.  He'd managed to seize even smidgen of power back from monster who had been ruining his life since day one on this world.  Unfortunately, Shockwave was not undone for half as long as Prowl would have liked.

“What would you have me do?  Lash out at Lockdown – injured and confined to stasis cuffs though I am?  Risk hurting myself, or even _Blurr_ in the process?  I could do nothing and so I did nothing.  How I may or may not feel for Blurr is unrelated.”

“And how  _do_  you feel for Blurr?”  Prowl probably should have called it quits, and left Shockwave to stew in his misery, but he was legitimately interested in the relationship between the two, mostly for purposes of survival.

Shockwave didn’t answer this time.

“I thought so.  And what about him?  How far would he go for you?  Would he fight for you? . . . Would he  _kill_  for you?”

“He did not kill Jazz, if that’s what you’re implying.  And as for what he feels for me, I’d imagine the answer to be 'confusion.'  I’ve been using him, taking advantage of his idolatry of Longarm, his isolation, and his broken mind to secure him for myself.”

“Why?” asked Prowl.  He felt disgust well up deep within his tanks as Shockwave spoke.  Blurr and Longarm had been inseparable for nearly as long as he'd known them – he'd been _arrested_ in response to their passion for each other, and so the notion that such an obvious love was all a lie hit him harder than he would have liked to admit. 

“Because I am a monster.”

Surely that couldn't have been it.  Shockwave wanted Blurr for some tactical reason that he preferred not to share with Prowl, and had invented a plausible lie to throw him off the trail – but was so _very_  plausible.  Prowl may have considered himself unaligned, knew that both (all three?) sides in the Autobot-Decepticon conflict were capable of the most brutal of atrocities, but he’d seen with his own optics the horrors that Shockwave was capable of.  Perhaps he spoke the truth, perhaps he really _was_ the kind of villain who took joy in tormenting another bot to the point of insanity.  Perhaps.

“But let’s not talk about Blurr.  The little dear has nothing to do with our escape.”

So he _did_ have a plan.  “You think I’ll help you escape?  Not likely."  Well, maybe a little likely, if the plan was good enough.

“Not even if it meant saving everyone else?”

Prowl paused.  Leave everyone to suffer at Lockdown's hand?  Or save the others and allow the _thing_ that had terrorized their group for nearly two deca-cycles to run free, to kill again?  This wasn’t the first time he’d been asked to choose between two equally bad outcomes, but this was perhaps the most difficult.  In the past, he’d put himself first – his needs for love, for revenge, for absolution.  But there was no right choice here.  He cared for these people, who had stood by his side when they’d had every reason not to, who tried so hard to convince him that there was good in people.  He wanted them to survive, return home, somehow find happiness after this hell.  But none of those were options. 

“What’s your plan?”

“You are bonded with Lockdown, are you not?”

Prowl’s fuel ran cold, but he didn't allow his fear to show.  “What makes you think that?”

“I have my sources,” Shockwave replied, voice neutral as ever.  “You don’t have to answer.  I know it to be true.”

“Okay.  Yes, you’re right.  We are.”

“Then my solution is for you to take one of those knives you for carrying around, and embed it in your own spark.”

It was almost laughable.  The effectiveness of doing such a thing was debatable at best, but the notion of being told to kill himself by a mech so evil easily made it the last thing he intended to do at the moment.

Shockwave seemed to pick up on Prowl's answer, even without its vocalization.  “Oh?  Do you not believe it will work?”

“It’s doubtful.  His spark is bigger than mine, stronger than mine.  This isn’t like the Jet Twins, equal partners, where the loss of one leaves death as likely an outcome as not.  My own death might hurt Lockdown, but it won’t stop him.”

“Then why do you suppose he fears it?”

The question caught Prowl off-guard.  Lockdown had been insistent on not letting him wander the galaxy on his own for fear of him dying, but that seemed to contradict his past actions, especially in light of what Optimus had informed him earlier about the ever-mysterious destruction of a certain ship.

“He doesn’t.  He tried to orchestrate my death on the Orion.  I don’t know why he wants me to stick around now, but he was lying when he said it was for his safety.”

Once again, Shockwave took his time answering, though this pause seemed to be for dramatic effect, rather than an issue with finding the words to say.  “I disagree.  Even I can tell how strong your spark is – perhaps one of the strongest I’ve ever seen.  Am I correct in assuming that you have an aptitude for the more . . . spiritual of talents?”

It was uncanny how well this near complete stranger knew him.  Master Yoketron too, had called him special, and had helped him to hone his unique talents, had taught him to see the forces of life around him, the inner workings of the ever-mysterious force known as the spark.  And he’d been good at it, good enough to pinpoint the exact location a spark had come into existence, had been extinguished – good enough to be named successor to the dojo.

“I am correct, am I not?”

“You are,” Prowl conceded.

“Then imagine, if you will, that Lockdown once thought as you, assumed your inevitable demise posed no threat to him, until  _something_ , perhaps your near deaths on this island, or even the mystery of your disappearance, changed his mind.  Lockdown is afraid of the power you hold over him, and  _that_  is why he wants to keep you close.  But even  _he_  can’t play babysitter forever.  This is your best chance of eliminating the threat he poses, and opening a path for the others to get home.”

Prowl considered Shockwave’s words.  Again, they rang true, despite his reluctance to accept them.  But this wasn’t like believing in Shockwave’s monstrous nature.  If he obeyed this time, then he would be dead, and if Shockwave was  _wrong_ , then he’d be leaving the others devoid of the best weapon they had against Lockdown.  He couldn’t risk it.

“I don’t think I will,” Prowl proclaimed, marching away from the door.

“Is it that you fear death?” Shockwave continued, unswayed.

“It is, though it’s not mine I worry about.”  He smiled, fully-aware that Shockwave could not see it, but he made sure to convey it in other ways as well – the confidence in his voice, the serenity in his EM field.

“I thought you may have something useful to tell me, but it seems I was wrong.  We’re done here, Shockwave.  I do not need your help to save everyone.  I’ll find my own way to do so.”

Shockwave did not reply, but somehow, even through the locked door, he could feel the shattered bulb of a single, red optic watching his retreat.  The sensation made Prowl uncomfortable, but Shockwave was in no position to hurt him right now – had no leverage to hold over him.  Prowl was free to make his own decisions, wherever they led him, and right now, he knew what he wanted to do.  He headed for the bridge.

Lockdown was waiting for him, reclined in the captain’s seat, feet propped up on the console.  “Welcome back,” he said, without bothering to face him.

“What did I miss?” Prowl asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral.  If he came off as too familiar, then Lockdown would suspect he was being played, but if he was too accusative, then Lockdown might respond in kind.  The mech was exhausting to be around.

“Not a damn thing,” was Lockdown’s equally neutral reply.  “Did you have a nice chat with Shockwave?”

“No,” Prowl answered, without missing a beat.  He made no move to elaborate.  It was best to let Lockdown lead.

Lockdown waited a moment to reply, nothing unusual there – he always  _had_  been a slow talker.  “He say anything interesting?”

“Nothing new.”  He’d intended for that to be it, but Shockwave’s assertions wouldn’t leave his head.  What if he  _was_  special?  What if he  _did_ have an abnormally strong spark?  And what if Lockdown _was_ afraid?  Of course, the real question was – how could he present his curiosities to Lockdown without rousing suspicion?

“Actually, I take that back.  He brought up an interesting point back there.”  Lockdown didn’t ask for further elaboration, but Prowl didn’t need him to.

“The way I understand it, you gave one of the crewmen of the Orion a bomb intended to destroy the ship.  Why?”

“Where’d you hear that?”  Lockdown drawled, still unperturbed.

“From the bot you gave it to.”

“I see.  Well the, yeah, that was me.  It was that client again – the one with the protoforms.  Paid me to start a war.  The Orion just presented itself as an easy opportunity.”

“Okay,” Prowl said, folding his arms in a cold stance, “then tell me why it was you maneuvered  _me_  onto that ship?”

The atmosphere in the room grew tense in an instant, and slowly, Lockdown turned in his chair to face Prowl, feet falling to the floor with a heavy thud, optics locked suspiciously on Prowl's own.

“I did do that, didn’t I?  My bad.”

“Your bad?  You do realized that I almost died?”

“And I’m glad you didn’t.”

Prowl resisted the urge to growl.  “Was it intentional then?  Were you trying to kill me?”

Lockdown shrugged.  “You realized this was years ago.  I can’t be expected to remember every little detail.”

“I’d like to think you’d remember if you tried to off your conjunx endura, especially if you’re so hesitant to let me die now.  So think about this, long and hard, and give me a satisfactory answer.”

Again, Lockdown shrugged, returning his attention to the control panel.  “If I'm remembering right, then I ain’t ever tried to kill you, but I also didn’t care if you happened to die in the crossfire.  Way I saw it, you’d be gone, and it’d be shitty for a while, but I’d finally be free, so yeah.  Kind of worth it in the end.”

“Is that so?”  Prowl moved to lean on the console as well, forcing himself into Lockdown’s line of sight.  An irritated growl escaped the mech; it was pleasing to Prowl, who couldn’t keep the cocky smile from forming on his lips. 

“You weren’t supposed to die," he said, with the barest hint of a snarl.  "And the ship wasn’t supposed to disappear from reality.  I didn’t know it would blow like that, and I didn’t think you would still be on it.  It wasn’t supposed to go off until you’d disembarked in Theophany.  Guess there were delays.”

“So what changed your mind?  You had no problem with me dying then, but now I can't be trusted to go off on my own for your security.  Are you gonna explain that, because something's not adding up to me.” He was being too forward.  Prowl was good at many things, but interrogation was not one of them.  Mentally, he kicked himself.  No way Lockdown wouldn't pick up on what he was doing.

Indeed, Lockdown narrowed his optics, tilting his head ever so slightly.  "Shockwave put you up to this."  It wasn't a question.  "I oughta muzzle on the guy.  You do realize what he's doing?"

"Do you?"

Lockdown chuckled in response.  "He's tryin' to manipulate his enemies into taking each other out.  I may not have heard his words, but it's not hard to guess what he said.  So I'm warning you now, don't go doin' anything stupid.  Unless you're secretly rooting for the bastard, of course."

Prowl didn't know how to respond.  He really _had_ made a nice mess of that.  What he wouldn't have given right then for more cunning, to have some skill to manipulate Lockdown, instead of the reverse.  But then to his surprise, Lockdown continued.

"Or maybe you really do just want to know.  And who am I to lie to you?  You wanna know what changed?"  Slowly as ever, Lockdown jerked his head at Prowl all sense of humor vanishing from his expression.  “You,” and then placed his hand over his spark.  “This.”

It was just as Shockwave had predicted then – Lockdown _had_ suffered a change of heart after vicariously experiencing Prowl's pain of these past weeks.  Prowl had experienced his own spark pains before – every time Lockdown got hurt, every time the bastard had tried to bond with another, but while intense, he couldn't imagine them instilling any drastic change of attitude within him, and he was less stubborn than Lockdown.  Just what had that mech experienced in his absence?

Though this confirmation indicated that the chances of Shockwave’s plan working weren’t half-bad – that was, if it was even up for consideration.  Lockdown may have been a colossal asshole, but he was good at reading people, and Prowl had no doubt that he'd read Shockwave correctly in this instance.  But that didn't mean he couldn't do anything with the information, especially if the situation got desperate. 

He filed the thought away for later.

 “Speaking of that little fetch quest,” Lockdown interrupted, “how did it go?  You get the goods?”

“I did,” Prowl confirmed with some hesitation.

“They still around?”

Again, Prowl hesitated, weighing his options.  Yes, the cores were around, by some great miracle.  The question was, did he want Lockdown to know about them?

“I lost them when the ship crashed.  Why?”  Lockdown had always been good at reading Prowl, and the look he shot him upon hearing the lie made it clear that it was an ability he still possessed.  But he didn't call him out on it.

“They’d make a pretty penny.  Not as much as your racer friend or even Shockwave, but more than the one-armed kid, at least.”

“What is it with you and money today?  I’ve never seen you so adamant about it before.”

“Fuel ain’t free.”

“And?”

Lockdown sighed.  “My biggest benefactors from the Autobots and former-Decepticons are dead, and the current Radicals are more likely to stab you in the back when it’s time to pay up.  And like I said earlier, I’m competing with bots that actually maintain an allegiance.  Bounties are hard to come by – I see an opportunity like this come up, I take it.  And bots are _always_ profitable.  Simple as that.”  He took a moment to vent.  Lockdown may have been good at reading Prowl, but Prowl could read him just as well.  Lockdown was tired, his paintjob wasn't so vivid as he remembered, his actions were just that much more terse, his EM field that much more frightened.  Life on the outside was not going so well for him.  That much was clear. 

But then, he saw that irate frown, still locked onto the surveillance monitor, twist into a malicious grin.  That couldn't have been good.  “On the other hand, I’m not so sure about  _that_  one.  There's always an exception to the rule.”  He gestured towards the monitor, fixed on the entry ramp, where a battered Bumblebee had just stumbled into view.

“Probably more than it’s worth to get ‘im fixed up.  Death would be kinder.”  He drummed the fingers of his good servo on the dashboard.

“You’re not killing Bumblebee,” Prowl stated, leaving no room for argument.  He couldn't save Jetfire and he couldn't save Blurr, but he was not going to fail a third time.

“Aren’t I?”

“You seem to desire my cooperation.  I can assure you right now, that if you kill any of my friends, I will make your life hell.”

Lockdown chuckled.  Prowl was bluffing, that much was obvious.  And as far as Lockdown was concerned, he had nothing to barter with – no power to speak of, that he would actually resort to using.  It would take another miracle to pull this off.

But it seemed luck was on his side at last.

“Fair enough.  I won’t kill the kid, provided he doesn't piss me off.  Just for you, Prowl.”  He rose to his feet, and smoothly sauntered out of the room.  “Don’t go anywhere.  I’ll be right back.”

Prowl was left alone once again, with Lockdown _still_ showing no indication of worry, not that he had any reason to.  Prowl had no desire to damage their ticket off this planet, nor did he have any current desire to harm himself.  And weak as he was, he also had no desire to move from this spot.  No.  Lockdown’s trust in  _him_  wasn’t a mystery.

What  _was_  a mystery, however, was Bumblebee’s solo arrival.  Optimus had been with the little guy when he’d made his earlier call, and Optimus was not the type to put a civilian, let alone one as wounded as Bumblebee, in danger.  So what was Bumblebee doing here alone?  Unless . . .

He was a distraction!

A relieved vent escaped from Prowl.  Even without word from Prowl that the situation had escalated, Optimus had made certain to move with caution.  He had a plan set in motion, and with any luck, it was a solid one.  Though the nature of any plan that could defeat Lockdown on his own doorstep was beyond him.  He’d just have to have faith in the Prime – faith that Optimus had been made into a leader for good reason.

In the meantime, all he could do was keep his optics locked on the monitor and hope he wasn’t mistaken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're on the home-stretch. Unless something goes horribly wrong, I got three more chapters and an Epilogue left to do. It's madness, guys!


	44. Death or Victory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bumblebee's mission may be to distract Lockdown, but playing the hero is more prestigious.

Bumblebee was scared.  He wasn’t about to mention that to anyone, of course – it would’ve flown right in the face of his bold claims from earlier, but to himself, he couldn’t deny it.  Optimus and Blackarachnia were trailing behind him out of sight, but for all intents and purposes, Bumblebee was alone, severely injured, and about to face down the big, scary root of everything currently wrong with his life (and somehow, he was expected to come out on top to boot.)  He felt that ‘scared’ about summed up the situation.

Not for the first time, he wished that Bulkhead was here – wished that he didn’t have to face down his fear on his own.  But Bulkhead had dropped out, and logically, Bumblebee knew he was right to.  With almost no mobility to speak of, he wouldn’t have been much more than a giant, meandering target, but Bumblebee was resentful nonetheless.  Then again, only Bumblebee could do Bumblebee’s job.  Optimus had hand-picked him specifically for his skill in the matter at hand – just one more bot that he couldn't let down.

He was in the ship now, but no one else seemed to be around.  The corridor he now found himself in was dark and gloomy, a fact that was in no way helped by his severely blurred vision.  He thought he saw some foreboding spatters of energon staining the ground, but there really was no way to tell.  Further adding to the unpleasant effect, were the sounds he couldn't quite hear, filtering through his damaged audials like distant whispers at the back of his mind.  There were soft whimpers, pained and scared, which may very well have been coming from Bumblebee himself.  The voices, however, were a bit harder to explain away.

_“Calm down.  I’m right over here.  You’re fine.”_

_“I’m not!  I lost us!  I got distracted and I lost and I’m a failure, an idiot, it’s my fault we’re in this mess and everything_ hurts! _It hurts, it hurts so much!  My leg!  He cut it open!  I can't run like this!  Again!  I'm useless again!  Useless and trapped in this small room!  Trapped!  It’s too small!  The walls are closing in all around me, Primus!  I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die!”_

_“You’re not going to die.  I will get us out of here, but I cannot do that unless you stay calm.  You’re no good to me like this.”_

_“Calm.  Yes.  Okay.  Calm.  I’ll be calm!”_

The voices ceased, only for the whimpering to recommence.  It occurred belatedly to Bumblebee that he might be hearing an actual conversation, but that struck him as complete rubbish.  There was no one here but him!

“Is somebody out there?”

And whomever  _that_ was, apparently.  Based on pitch and timbre alone, Bumblebee could guess that voice didn’t belong to anyone good.  The accent merely cinched it.  Only bad guys had accents like _that_.

“Who are you?” Bumblebee called back.  “And could you speak up?  I can’t really hear.”

“Ah, Bumblebee.”

How did this guy know his name?  He wasn’t the one from the bar, was he?   _Couldn’t_  have been!  That guy hadn’t had an accent – at least, Bumblebee didn’t  _think_  he did. 

“You didn’t answer my question,” Bumblebee insisted, trying to put on a brave face.

“Just a hopeless prisoner, trapped here by Lockdown.”

Lockdown.   _That_  was that  _creep’s_  name!  Bumblebee was almost certain of it.

“Lockdown imprisoned you?  Don’t worry.  I’m here to stop him!”

“Are you sure you can?”

Who was this voice to question him?  Maybe Bumblebee hadn’t been sure he could win before, but he sure as the Pit was now.  “Of course I can!  I’m working to be an Elite Guardsmech.  Some stupid creep with a spaceship isn’t gonna get the best of me!”

“I’m glad then,” the voice said.  “I’m lucky a bot like  _you_  has come to save us.”  He didn’t  _sound_  that happy to be saved, but Bumblebee figured that had more to do with the mech being boring as a lecture from a tutor-bot than it did with his actual feelings.  He _had_ to be happy that Bumblebee was here to save him.  That's how things like this worked!

“You bet!  I’ll stop Lockdown no matter what!” 

The voice didn’t respond this time, though the reason for that soon became apparent.  Heavy footsteps echoed through the hall, vibrating right through Bumblebee’s spark.  The whimpering started up again in full-force, more panicked than ever, and at that point Bumblebee realized that one: it was very much real, and two: it wasn’t in fact, coming from him.

The blurry visage of a mech he hadn’t thought about in weeks came into view, pausing to kick at one of the doors lining the hall (where had  _those_  come from?)  The whimpering only intensified, until it warped into a terrifying cackling.  One more kick shut it up.

“Welcome, Kid.”

“You!”  Bumblebee barked – tried to bark – squeaked, really.  Stupid vocaliser wasn’t cooperating.

“Yes,” he answered, sauntering forward with his single hand outstretched.  Unfortunately for Lockdown, Bumblebee had no intention of going peacefully, not after promising that mysterious voice in his head that he would save it.  Bumblebee stumbled to the side in an effort to dodge the impending hand – only to immediately be grabbed by the back of his neck, and lifted into the air.  Evidently, he’d misjudged Lockdown’s reach.

_That was fine_ , he told himself,  _I have Lockdown right where I want him._   It wasn't a very believable lie.

He kicked out with broken, stubby legs, trying to catch Lockdown in his (hopefully) less protected mid-section.  But again, he’d underestimated the mech’s reach.  Bumblebee came up short as ever, and Lockdown remained unharmed.

“Let’s go, Tiger,”  the mech drawled, an unspoken threat prominent in his voice.  _If you don't cooperate, I_ will _kill you,_ it said.

Bumblebee stopped fighting.  He knew it was a useless effort, and struggling took far more energy than he had to spare.  Already, he’d managed to reopen a few of the wounds that Blackarachnia had worked not-all-that hard to patch.  Small spatters of pink trickled down his plating in places, dribbling to the floor, adding to his indignity.  He was a coward, a failure; he'd proved true everything the others believed of him, and moreover, he'd let down Jazz.  

At this point, all he had left to save him, were his past connection with Lockdown, and Optimus Prime himself.  It was thus, with a great sense of doom, that he allowed himself to be carried down the hall.

~~~

Prowl was waiting for him in the bridge, sitting gingerly against a near wall.  It looked like he too, had taken some damage since they’d last met.

“Bumblebee," he acknowledged.  "What happened to you?”

“I had a run-in with a giant, angry wasp, _and_ a giant, rocky cliff.  What about you?”

Bumblebee was tossed towards Prowl before he’d had the chance to answer.  Instead, the already weakened mech was forced to scoot to the side to avoid being squashed, while Bumblebee was left stumbling to catch his footing.  He failed, and landed in a sad heap on the ship’s floor.  “Oww,” he whined.

“Let’s not get sappy here," Lockdown said, crossing the room to take a seat in the captain’s chair.

That was fine.  Bumblebee didn't need words to convey the things he wanted,  _needed_  to tell Prowl.  He opened his comm . . . Only to be met with the same screeching feedback as before.  He winced, and though Prowl clearly saw it, he made no comment.  Fortunately, Lockdown didn't notice at all. 

His comm was still broken, leaving him more vulnerable than ever.  It was bad enough he couldn’t talk to Prowl, but what if he needed to contact the  _Prime_?  He silently cursed Blackarachnia for not bothering with to fix it. 

With communication impossible, Bumblebee instead forced himself up, forced himself to sit as tall as he could, tried not to lean on the wall, tried to appear strong.  He couldn’t fill Prowl in on the plan, and he couldn’t report to Optimus, but that wasn’t about to stop him.  He had a mission to do, and judging by the keen attention Lockdown focused on the screen in front of him, he was either playing a game, or looking at video feed of the ship’s surveillance network.  Bumblebee was here as a distraction; he wasn’t about to let Optimus and Blackarachnia get caught before they had a chance to save the day.

“Hey!” he tried to shout, again disappointed by his vocaliser’s inability to behave.  He repeated the action when Lockdown failed to answer.

“Prowl, control your friend, or he’s dead.”

Something was wrong here.  It was in the way Lockdown treated him, talked about him.  The guy was an irredeemable aft, but they had a history together.  Why then, did he only talk to Prowl, as though Bumblebee was invisible?  Why was he so distant?

“What does that mean?  You’re gonna kill me?  After everything we’ve been through?!”

Still, Lockdown wouldn’t acknowledge him.  “Prowl, what’s this kid on about?”

Prowl could only shrug, every bit as perplexed as Lockdown. 

Bumblebee felt he had to keep trying.  It was a matter of pride by this point.  “You were all over me the last time we met, and now you won’t even look at me!”

This time, Lockdown  _did_  turn to look, tilting his head and narrowing his optics as he tried to recall.  He didn’t waste much time on the effort, however.  “Kid, I have never seen you in my life.”

It was insulting.  Bumblebee liked to think he left an impression on people, especially the ones who invited him back to their place at the end of the night, and bestowed upon him luxury-liner-destroying bombs disguised as gifts.

“Come on!  You gave me that copy of  _Cyberninja Gladiator_  that destroyed the Orion!  How do you not remember me?!”

At last, comprehension dawned on Lockdown’s creepy face.  “Oh, you’re from Maccadam’s.  That explains it.”

“It took you _that_ long to figure it out?!”

“Kid,” he sighed, leaning to the side to rest a lazy elbow on the console.  “I met a lotta folks at that bar.  You just happened to have the right kinda look about you.”

"What does _that_ mean?" Bumblebee asked, too curious for anger.

“Small and naïve, not immediately ugly, good condition – you were the perfect target.  Low effort, decent money – but bots like you are a dime a dozen. sorry to burst your bubble.”

Bumblebee was offended.  He shouldn’t have been – should’ve been relieved that happenstance had kept him from getting on that ship that night, half-a-lifetime ago.  He could have wound up who knew where, half-dead and degraded to beyond nothing.  Then again, that wasn’t much of a change from his current situation.

He’d stretched the truth when he spoke to Optimus about his relationship with Lockdown, and he was even trying to stretch it now, in a way.  But the events of that night hadn't been so long ago, and he had not forgotten them, or at least the important parts.

Bumblebee had never been a popular mech.  People tended to take one look at his obnoxious personality, and go running in the other direction.  But this mech, tall and gruff and handsome under the influence of a few Nova Cronals, had approached  _him_ , talked to him, bought him more drinks, offered to take him back to his ship (he had a  _ship!!)_ , and starved for affection, Bumblebee ate it right up.  He didn’t know why the guy had changed his mind in the end, only that he’d sent Bumblebee home with a token from his treasury, and a disappointed spark – the aft!  And to add insult to injury, Lockdown barely even remembered any of it! 

“Wait, I think it's comin' back," he said with a lazy grin, not even remotely similar to those that Jazz would flash him.  "Yeah.  You’re a chatty little bug, aren’t you?”  Lockdown rose from his seat, strolling over with slow, purposeful steps.

“I’m not a bug,” Bumblebee protested.  Lockdown however, had gone back to focusing on Prowl.

“Get a few drinks in a bot, and it’s crazy the things they reveal.  Your friend here, for instance, was really excited about his new job – started getting into all sorts of details about its prestigious passengers and fancy engines.  I suppose you could call him an inspiration.”

Bumblebee didn’t understand the full implication of Lockdown’s words, but he didn’t have to.  He had messed up, big time.  He didn't remember telling Lockdown about the quantum engines, but there were many things about that night he didn’t remember, beyond the beginning and end, the hope and the subsequent despair.  He’d broken his contract, had told this mech – this terrible, evil mech, things about the ship that he wasn’t even allowed to tell its captain.

“No way . . .” Bumblebee’s voice came out as no more than a whisper.

Again, his words were ignored.  But Lockdown was close now, but a few feet away.  His proximity made Bumblebee nervous, but he was too upset to move.

“And y’know, while we’re on the subject of engines . . .”

It happened in a flash.  One moment, Bumblebee was leaning weakly against the wall.  The next, he’d been knocked back to the floor, with a massive pede on his chest, threatening to grind him to a pulp.  Blackarachnia’s rushed repair was undone in a moment; his entire chest plate collapsed, adding pressure to his frantically pulsing spark.  He cried out in pain, but that only convinced Lockdown to dig in his heel.

“Care to tell me what you did with ‘em?”

Prowl, despite his own injuries, had leapt to his feet in record time, facing Lockdown with a furious glare.  “I told you, I lost them!”

“Yeah, see – I don’t believe you.  I can smell deceit, Prowl, and you reek of it.  But if you want your little friend to die, then by all means, hold your tongue.”

Bumblebee didn’t understand what was going on.  Why would Prowl have the ship’s engines?   _How_  did Prowl have the ship’s engines?  They were huge!  Or did he have only the cores?  That would have made more –  _why was Lockdown hurting him again?!_

Bumblebee’s chest buckled with a sharp creak, caving in further.  He was going to die!  After surviving the cliff and talking big and all that, his  _not_ -ex-boyfriend was going to crush him to death for some spare bits of ship!

“Enough!" Prowl snapped.  "I’ll tell you, just stop hurting him.”  It was almost pathetic how easily Prowl caved under pressure, not that Bumblebee had room to talk.  Nor could he complain, for Prowl’s weakness had ended his own pain; Lockdown let up, leaving his pede lightly seated on Bumblebee's chest – a warning.

“I was able to get them out when the ship crashed.  They were too unstable to put in my subspace, so I had to carry them to Optimus's panic room myself.  The first two I managed to hide just fine, but the thing deployed before I could secure the third, let alone myself.  I tried to save it, but failed in quite the spectacular manner.  By the time I woke up down here, it had already been discovered and destroyed.

“The other two, however, I was able to recover.  The first free moment I had, I took them and buried them out in the wilderness.”

“Is that so?” said Lockdown, removing his foot and stepping closer to Prowl.  “I expect you will be showing me exactly where, once I’ve put away all of your pals.”

Prowl paused, gritting his dentae, as though the situation caused him physical pain.  But one look at Bumblebee’s pathetic chassis was enough to convince his cooperation.  “Of course.””

Lockdown offered him a knowing smirk in response, before returning to his monitor.  He took a moment to peruse the screen, examining each room of the ship in turn.  Bumblebee knew that something was wrong (or right!!) when he noticed Lockdown's mouth twist downward into a distinct frown.

“What the frag is this?” he said, with surprisingly little passion. Bumblebee's spark leapt painfully in his chest.  He could only guess what Lockdown had found.

“What is it?” Prowl asked, but again, Lockdown wasn't answering with words.  Instead, he marched over to Bumblebee, hoisted him up by an arm, and dragged him over to the monitor, pointing at the screen with his creepy hook.  Prowl followed close behind.

“What is this?” Lockdown said again, indicating the image of an empty hallway, with a single, open door located at center-screen.

“It’s a door,” Bumblebee said, holding back his sigh of relief.  He didn't know what the significance of this door was, but it wasn't Optimus at least.

“An open door,” Lockdown corrected.  “An open door that is no longer keeping our good friend Shockwave from murdering the lot of us.”

Bumblebee froze.  He hadn't known Shockwave – the very Shockwave that had murdered Sentinel, Ratchet, and _Jazz_ – was on the ship.  That was bad enough on its own, but he couldn’t for the life of him understand why Optimus and Blackarachnia would let him out.  And moreover, were they all right?  Shockwave was not a threat to take lightly.  Even _Bumblebee_ knew that.

“Hmm,” Lockdown grunted, as though a thought had occurred to him.  The camera moved down the hall, closing in on another door, which remained unopened.  “Interesting.  He left his pet behind.”

“What are you talking about?”  Unsurprisingly, Bumblebee’s question was destined to remain unanswered.

“What do you think, Prowl?  His friends hiding in the engine room?  Hackin' my ship?”

“I think Shockwave broke himself out,” Prowl answered, without much conviction.

“With those cuffs on?  Not likely.  Engine room it is.”  The camera changed to reflect Lockdown’s words, showing them an equally-empty engine room.  Lockdown’s optics narrowed to thin slits of red light.  At last, he turned to Bumblebee, clutching the arm he held in hand tightly enough to dent it.  Bumblebee squirmed uselessly under the pain.

“I think someone was playin’ decoy, don’t you?  So Kid, why don’t you tell me where your friends are hiding?”

“I don’t know!” Bumblebee hissed back, and then, feeling suddenly brave, added, “On their way over here to kick your aft into next week, probably.”

“You’re useless,” Lockdown snapped, releasing his hold on Bumblebee with enough force to send him toppling to the ground with a heavy thud.  Prowl was quick to his side, helping him back to his shaky feet.

“We’ll check the medbay then.  I know I left one of you buggers there  . . . Well, would you look at that?”

Bumblebee and Prowl moved closer to catch a glimpse of the screen.  The camera was focused on what must have been Lockdown’s medbay, where Jetfire and Optimus both were standing in the doorway, deep in conversation, if only for a moment.  The camera had barely been on them an astrosecond, before they both dipped back into the hall and out of sight.

“Caught in the act,” Lockdown muttered.  “No matter.  They won’t dare attack so long as I have the two of you, now will they?”

“I wouldn’t count on that,” said Prowl.  “You saw Jetfire earlier.  The way he's functioning now makes him unpredictable.”

“Hmm,” Lockdown tapped the tip of his hook against his chin.  “I'll chance it.”  Before he'd had time to process movement, Bumblebee was back in Lockdown’s wicked clutches.  The creep dragged him to the door, to use as a shield against his friends, and though Jetfire very well  _may_  choose to attack anyway (it wouldn’t be the first time), he had no doubts that Optimus would never hurt him.  If Optimus showed up to this confrontation and saw that Lockdown had taken him hostage, then everything was over for them.  Bumblebee, terrified though he was, couldn't let that happen.

He dug his heels into the ground, twisted and pulled away until he was convinced his arm would snap off, but it was all to no avail.  Lockdown was just too strong.  But when they reached the door, the brute hesitated.  Bumblebee didn’t know why, but he was glad for it anyway.  If Lockdown wanted to stare at a door for a few minutes, Bumblebee wasn’t going to stop him.

They were moving again, backwards, and to the side – out of the door’s line of sight.  Bumblebee didn't like where this was going at all.

Without warning, the door opened, and through it, Jetfire barreled into the room.  He was fast, full of rage, and armed with a variety of defensive mods, as well as one mysterious blaster, fastened to his arm, which he fired first and foremost.  Lockdown dodged easily.

He made a cursory effort at using Bumblebee as a shield, but as Prowl had predicted, Jetfire was not swayed by the hostage crisis.  In a ball of fire, he lunged for Lockdown, fast enough to get around and provide a violent attack to his unguarded back.  Unable to fight properly  _and_  hold a hostage, Lockdown gave up on Bumblebee, dropping him to the floor in order to focus more fully on the furious jet assaulting him.

Bumblebee had never seen anything like this in his life – two powerful mechs fighting with every intention to kill the other.  Jetfire’s flame was unstoppable, burning hot enough to scorch Bumblebee’s plating, even though he was nowhere near the action.  His kicks were heavy, enough so to send Lockdown flying with each impact, though never enough to knock him down. And though Lockdown was visibly wary of the blaster, he was still able to dodge every slow shot with ease.

Despite his strong start, relentless attacks, and pilfered armor, the fight was not balanced in Jetfire’s favor.

Jetfire’s actions had no thought behind them, his movements were clumsy and unbalanced, still weak from his earlier injuries, and he just couldn’t seem to hit Lockdown with his weapon of choice.  Moreover, Lockdown’s armor was modified for maximum defense – Jetfire just couldn’t get in a hit strong enough to take the guy out.

Bumblebee watched, horrified, as Lockdown dodged another kick, whirled his way around his opponent, and dragged his chainsaw across the protoform of Jetfire’s belly, sending him collapsing forward in a shower of energon.  His weapon fell from his servo, sliding to a stop at Bumblebee’s feet.

Jetfire struggled to recover himself, to get back up, but Lockdown put a quick end to that, stomping his pede into the small of Jetfire's spinal strut with a sickening crack; an agonized cry split the air.

As with Bumblebee before, Lockdown did not remove his leg, ground deeper into the wound.  His chainsaw was held at Jetfire’s canopy, angled to best cut through to his spark.

“Pity, you’ve taken too much damage.  No one will buy you now.  Looks like I got no choice but to put you outta your misery.”

Bumblebee could have helped him; he had the mystery gun, all he had to do was fire!  But he was scared.  He could remember with ease that massive pede pressing into his own chest – could remember how helpless he’d been when he’d tried to fight earlier, how fast he’d been overcome, how he’d been treated like a lifeless automaton thereafter, dragged about with no will of his own.  What if he missed?  What if the weapon was just some hunk of junk?  What if Lockdown came after him again?  The possibilities left him petrified.

And so, he was as startled as Lockdown when the brute went stumbling forward, clutching his chest with a shout of pain.  Bumblebee had done nothing.

He looked across the room, beyond Lockdown to see Prowl, his chest plate wide open, his spark crackling violently, as though it had just suffered a blow, while in his hand was a white-hot blade.  Bumblebee didn’t know exactly  _what_ had happened, but he was glad for it – that was, until Lockdown turned his wrath on Prowl.

“You glitched-up, fluid-leaking gutter trash.”  He stumbled forward, murder in his optics.  “I dare you to try.”

Prowl seemed ready to follow through, moving the blade back over his spark for a second strike.  And it was then that Bumblebee realized what was happening.  Jazz had told him that Prowl was bonded to Lockdown.  Bumblebee may not have known how it all worked, but even _he_ could tell that Prowl had damaged his own spark to hurt Lockdown, and he was looking to do it again, take it a step further.  Prowl was about to sacrifice himself to save them, and for some reason, that pissed Bumblebee off to no end. 

_He_  was supposed to be the hero.   _He_  was supposed to save the day, and Prowl was  _not_  allowed to die for his sake!  Bumblebee grabbed the gun and fired.

The effect was near instantaneous.  The moment Lockdown was hit by the blast, all of the energy seemed to drain from his body.  He stumbled, made a vain effort to grab for Prowl, and then at last, collapsed, passed out cold on the floor.

For a moment, no one moved, Prowl and Bumblebee watched the body on the ground, shocked that they had actually won.  But the trance that had come over them was short-lived.  A smile broke out on Bumblebee’s face, and Prowl matched it.

“You did it,” Prowl said, shocked, proud, relieved.  “You took out Lockdown.  I wasn’t sure you could.”

Normally, Bumblebee would have argued at Prowl’s last statement, but he was too tired to bother.

“Yeah, me neither,” he replied.  “I think I need to  . . . sit down.”  He stumbled over to the captain’s chair, collapsing as though he were heavy as Bulkhead.  “Yeah, that’s better.”

Prowl was surely tired as well, but he seemed to be on a mission.  Grimacing, he snapped his chest plate shut over his flickering spark, and marched over to check on Jetfire.

“How is he?” Bumblebee asked, peering over the back of the chair.  He didn’t like Jetfire at all, but he was grateful to the coghead nonetheless.  If Jetfire hadn’t shown up when he did, the lot of them would surely find their futures in chains.

“He's taken some pretty heavy damage,” Prowl said, carefully turning the mech over to quell some of the bleeding.  He lay a gentle servo near the wound, feeling out the severity of it.  “But I think he'll pull through.  We should get him into stasis to buy us some time.”

Jetfire moaned weakly at the touch and allowed his optics to flicker back on.  “Mister Prowl, Sir, did we winning?” 

“We did,” was Prowl’s soft reply.

“Then I am glad.”

As sweet as all that was, Bumblebee was exhausted, and growing more so by the second.  He wanted everything to resolve itself so he could go get Bulkhead and take a three vorn nap.  “So, what?  We take him to the stasis chamber?”

“In a moment,” Prowl said, crawling to his feet.  “First, we need to disarm Lockdown.  I don't know how long that shot will keep him down.  You may want to avert your optics.”

“Wait, what?”

“I’ve got some surgery to perform.”

Bumblebee didn’t need to be told twice; he’d already met his gore quotient for the day.  He turned back around in his seat, trying to ignore the sound of metal slicing through metal at his back.  He’d have thought with his audials damaged as they were that the sound would be easier to ignore.

In front of him was the surveillance monitor –  _that_  could prove a useful distraction.

The camera had returned to the engine room, just as before.  Standing at a console that was either comically small, or just small by comparison, was a bot that Bumblebee had never seen before.  At first, he feared that Lockdown had an ally that he’d neglected to tell them about – that they’d be forced to take out, as they had Lockdown, but then he noticed the massive claws, and that hideous lack of face, save for one bright red optic.  He knew who this was.

“Prowl, I think that’s Shockwave in the engine room.”

“What?!”  Prowl ceased in his operation immediately, flying for the console.  “No, that’s bad.  The ship’s primary computer is located in there.  He’ll have access to –“

The lights flickered out, and somewhere beyond, loud enough to be picked up by even Bumblebee’s damaged audials, came the click of the door locking.  They were trapped!

“Prowl?  What’s going on?”

“He knows we’re in here.  He’s going to . . . oh no.”  Prowl stumbled backward, easing himself to the floor, suddenly drained of energy.

“Oh no?” Bumblebee squeaked.  “I don’t like ‘oh no!’  What’s going on, Prowl?”

From the floor, Jetfire began to mumble.  ”Too sleepy.  I am being sorry.  Must . . ." he passed out before he could finish his sentence.

Now that Jetfire had mentioned it, Bumblebee noticed that he felt quite the same.  He’d chocked it up to his injuries, and surely they were in-part to blame, but this didn’t feel right.  It was as though he were back in Optimus's panic room, freshly deployed from the dying Orion, head heavy and processes slowing down as he succumbed to stasis.

That was it then.  For whatever reason, Lockdown’s bridge was putting the three of them into stasis lock, and there was nothing they could do to fight it.  After all that, how far they’d come, they were going to lose to Shockwave, when victory was so close at hand.

Bumblebee slumped back into his chair, no longer capable of fighting off the stasis lock.  As he drifted off, the only thing on his mind was Optimus Prime.  Optimus was still somewhere on the ship, Bumblebee had seen as much.  But he hadn't shown up on the bridge with Jetfire.  Where then, had he gone?  And was he all right?  He had to be!  After all, it was up to him to save them now.

 


	45. The Best-Laid Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Optimus's plan is to save the day is perfect! It has to be. Everyone is relying on him.

This was the moment of truth.  If Optimus failed here, he might as well be throwing away all of their futures in one fell swoop.

Lockdown had Bumblebee, and judging by their failure to answer their comms, he mostly likely had Prowl, Jetfire, and Blurr as well.  With Bulkhead out of commission, everything came down to himself and Blackarachnia.

“Okay fearless leader, we’re on the ship.  Now what?” Blackarachnia said, still as sassy as ever.  Optimus feared that she wasn’t taking this mission seriously – that she would dip out at the slightest provocation, but he couldn't let it get to him.  Of course he couldn't trust Blackarachnia, she was an enemy.  Besides, even Elita had been prone to inappropriately-timed humor, it wasn't necessarily a sign of their doom.  Optimus prayed for patience – flippant or not, she was all he had at the moment.

“If we go to the bridge, we could hack the ship’s computer, disable his ((energy signature recognition controls so that we can take over.  With any luck, we’ll find where he’s keeping the others, and bust them out.”

“Okay,” said Blackarachnia, folding her arms.  “It’s a good start, but Lockdown doesn’t keep the ship's main computer controls in the bridge.”

“What?”  Optimus had never heard of such a thing.  Where else would someone keep them?  “Then how does he . . .?”

“The bridge runs on auxiliary power, but if memory serves, the paranoid lug keeps his hardware in the engine room.  It’s a backup measure in the event of a takeover.  He breaks out of wherever his captors toss him, goes to the engine room, wipes out the hijackers with a stasis-inducing pulse, and wrests control back into his own hands.”

“So you’re saying we should go to the engine room.”

“I am.”

“Then let’s go.”

“You know where it is?”

Optimus didn’t, but he had a reasonable guess.  “I’ve been on IG-2000 class cruisers before.  Modified or no, the layout should be about the same.”

Blackarachnia shot him a cheeky smile and a lazy salute.  “Lead the way then, Boss.”

The words felt so right – words that she'd said once upon a time, in another life, a sign of affection for a bossy teammate.  Here, however, they were an intentional mockery, meant to remind him of his failure.  He would never admit how much it bothered him to hear them leave her mouth.

~~~

As it turned out, Optimus’s guess was right.  The engine room was found at the tail of the ship, on the lowest level exactly where he’d thought it would be.  And just as Blackarachnia had suggested, there was a large computer terminal in the near corner of the room.

“Voila,” Blackarachnia waved a sweeping arm toward the wall.  “Off to a strong start.  I’m proud of you, Mr. Leader.”  The words would have meant a lot to him, had they not been spoken in such a scathing tone.  He let the mockery slide, however.  Again, personal vendettas could wait.  Primus knew,  _Optimus_  didn’t have the ability to hack into a ship’s computer.

Blackarachnia, fortunately, seemed to know what she was doing.  She sauntered merrily over to the machine, pulled a cable from inside her arm, and jacked in.  Not sure what else to do, Optimus followed, prepared to manually disengage in the event something went wrong.  Again, nothing did.

“Okay,” she said.

“Okay?”

“What, do you want me to say, ‘I’m in?’”

Optimus nearly laughed at that one.  “That was just – faster than I was expecting.  Doesn’t this kind of thing usually take cycles?”

“Maybe I’m just that good,” she shrugged, rolling her head in lieu of her strange optics.

“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?  On this ship.”

She groaned with annoyance.  “Maybe I have.  Is this really relevant right now?”

“I suppose not,” Optimus conceded.

“Then tell me what you want.  The ship is mine to command.”

Optimus thought over his options for a moment.  “Disable those isomorphic controls. At the very least, I want to be able to fly this thing.  I can't do that if the ship only responds to him.”

“Already working on it,” she grinned.  “That one  _is_  gonna take some time, however.  He’s got some pretty nice toys in here.”

“Okay then.”  What was the next course of action?  Rescue the others?  Take out Lockdown?  “You have surveillance, right?”

“Duh.”  Again, he ignored the jab.

“Can you see anyone else?”

“Oh, sure.”  She leaned against the terminal, optics far away, fixed on invisible sights.  “Looks like Lockdown’s got the kid and your ninja friend captive on the bridge, and Sentinel’s doofy-looking lackey is tied up in the medbay.  I don’t see the blue wonder anywhere, but he  _could_  be in a room with no surveillance.  There seem to be a lot of those.  And I thought Lockdown was supposed to be paranoid.”

So most everyone was alive at least.  That was a start.  The next question then, was how he wanted to deal with Lockdown.  He was presumably uninjured, and was on the bridge with two potential hostages.  Optimus couldn’t go in, weapons swinging.  But another thought struck him.

“You said that Lockdown could put the bridge in stasis from here?”

“I did, but I wouldn’t recommend doing that.” 

Optimus cocked his head with a frown.  “Why not?”

“Because Lockdown’s a paranoid mod-head.  I’d bet my spinnerets that he’s got measures in place to keep from falling into his own trap.  Unless he’s a complete idiot, all that putting the bridge into stasis would do is alert him to our presence, while making your friends vulnerable.”

Optimus felt quite the fool that he hadn’t worked as much out himself.  “Bad idea.  I’m sorry.”  She didn’t dignify that one with an answer.  Worse than Blackarachnia’s disrespectful attitude, however, was the fact that he  _still_  didn’t know what to do.

He chanced turning to Blackarachnia for advice.  “What do you suggest?”

“You’re asking  _me_ , Mister Big-Shot Prime?  I’m flattered.”

“Blackarachnia,” Optimus growled, losing patience.

“Don’t get your circuits crossed.  If you ask me, you should go in there, swing your mighty axe, and kill Lockdown dead.  Of course,  _I_  have no reason to care about the welfare of your little Autobot buddies, so you’re probably not gonna follow my advice anyway.”

Again, Optimus felt the fool.  He was on his own this time, and the thought terrified him.  What if he made the wrong choice?  What if he made no choice?  That would surely be worse.

“How does Jetfire look?”

“Who?”

“Sentinel’s ‘doofy-looking lackey,’ as you so charmingly put it.”

“He’s strapped to a med slab and missing an arm.”

“Does he look like he can fight?”

Blackarachnia hesitated this time.  “Well, he’s online, so that’s a start, I guess.  Is he strong enough to beat Lockdown?  Like that?  Primus, no, but –“

“I didn’t ask if he could win.  I just asked if he could fight.”

“Ooh,” she scoffed.  “Who is this stone-cold badass, and what did he do with the wishy-washy Prime?”

Patience ever-waning, Optimus allowed himself to shoot her a dirty look.  “Jetfire is not the type to care about hostages.  I’m banking on him catching Lockdown off-guard – keep him occupied long enough to get Prowl and Bumblebee to safety.”

“And Jetfire?”

“Jetfire is a soldier first and foremost, while Bumblebee and Prowl are civilians.  But yes, if I can, I will save him too.”

“Cold,” she laughed.

“Does this sound reasonable to you?”  Honestly, Optimus didn’t like it, but he couldn’t afford to wait around for a better opportunity.  Every moment he spent idling in indecision was another moment Lockdown had to discover their presence, and once that happened, they were done for.

“Well, you’re either going to kill everyone, or save everyone.  Let’s see which it is.”

“Then direct me to this medbay.”

~~~

He was sent back the way they’d come – back into the entrance corridor, with its energon-stained ground, oppressive ceiling, walls of unnerving, locked doors – he wondered what could be behind them, or who.

Eventually, he was directed to the end of the corridor, where yet one more locked door stood in his way,  though this one was bigger than the rest, double sealed to slide apart at the middle, rather than from the side.  This room was important.

“This is the place,” Blackarachnia’s voice sounded in his commlink.

“Then let’s get this door out of the way.”

“Oh, yes  _Sir_!” she mocked, eliciting a grumpy optic roll from Optimus.  But she did as she was told, and sure enough, the door came sliding open.

“Do your worst!” a familiar voice snarled from the center of the room.  “I am never to be talking!”

“Jetfire, it’s me,” Optimus reassured.

“Oh!” Jetfire responded, tone brightening immediately.  “Optimus Prime Sir is here to save me!”

“Yeah,” Optimus said, for the first time, noticing the rest of the room.  There were shelves that lined the walls, piled high with spare modifications.  Apparently, Blackarachnia hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d called Lockdown a “mod-head.”  Perhaps there was something useful to be found in the arsenal.

“Sir?”

But Jetfire came first.  “Blackarachnia, do you think you could get him out of here?”  She didn’t answer this time, which felt unusual to Optimus, but the restraints receded anyway, so he wasn’t complaining.

Jetfire bounded to his feet the moment he was free, though the sour look on his face indicated that the action pained him.

“Are you all right?” Optimus asked, natural concern taking over.

“Yes Sir!” Jetfire barked.  It was what Optimus wanted to hear, but he didn’t believe it for a second.  His current plan relied on Jetfire.  If the bot couldn't hold up his end of the deal, then they may as well be walking into a death trap.

“I need your honest answer,” Optimus said, more firmly.  “I can’t give you the right orders if I don’t know what you’re capable of.  My current plan depends on your ability to hold your own in a fight, at least for a few kliks.  If you’re too injured to do that, then we fail, and Lockdown does whatever he wants to do with us.

“I don’t want bravado or brave lies.  Tell me honestly if you’re able to fight, and if you can’t, then we’ll come up with a new plan.”  For once, he seemed to be getting through to Jetfire, the bot normally so obsessed with appearances and strength.  He faltered, amber optics flicking to the floor for a moment, ashamed to show his weakness to a Prime.

“I am being injured," he conceded.  "Lockdown was beating me once, and maybe Blurr was beating me again?”

_That_  wasn’t something Optimus wanted to hear.  Jazz had said Blurr was trustworthy, hadn’t he?  Something didn't add up.  “Are you sure it was Blurr?”

Jetfire shrugged.  “I am not being sure.  One moment, I was to flying at Shockwave, the next, I am to flying the other way with everything hurting, then knocking out.  It was too fast hit to see.”

There was more bad news in that statement.  “Shockwave’s here?  On this ship?”

Again, Jetfire shrugged, optics growing wide with worry.  “Maybe?  He was Blurr’s prisoner when I was seeing him, but I am only now waking up.  If he is on board, I am not knowing it.”

“But he was Blurr’s prisoner?”

“I am thinking so.  He was in stasis cuffs.”

Then perhaps things weren’t all bad.  It was easy to imagine Jetfire losing his cool around Shockwave, prisoner or no.  How Blurr had managed to capture the monster was a mystery, but not an implausible turn of events, especially given how hard he’d taken Jazz’s death.  He’d need to find an impartial, not to mention  _reliable_ third party to know for sure what was going on.

“Okay,” Optimus said with a nod.  “I’ll worry about Blurr and Shockwave.  But let’s focus on Lockdown right now.  You’re saying you cannot fight him?”

Jetfire hung his head.  “As I am being, I will not lasting a klik in fight with Lockdown.”

Again, that was  _not_  something that Optimus wanted to hear, though he was glad for Jetfire’s honesty.  “Okay, I’ll figure something else out then.”

But Jetfire stubbornly shook his head.  “I want to be fighting Lockdown, Sir.  It is matter of pride.  Also, he hurt Mister Prowl, Sir, and I am wanting to making him pay for that.”

“No,” Optimus said.  “I’m not sending you to your certain death.  All that will do is get Prowl and Bumblebee needlessly hurt too.  If you’re not confident you can last a klik, then you’re not going out there.”

“As I am being now, I cannot beating him,” Jetfire agreed.  “But with mods, I think I can be.”

It wasn’t a bad idea, all things considered.  Optimus had personally never been a huge fan of mods; he allowed himself his grappling hook – that was all he cared for.  But if Jetfire could modify himself to last in a fight against a healthy opponent for any length of time, then it was worth a shot.

“Maybe,” Optimus said, wavering.

Jetfire took it as a chance to prove himself.  He rushed to the shelves, grabbing the first thing in reach.

“This helmet is keeping my head safe, and is also boosting reaction time, perception, and accuracy!”  He placed it over his own helm.  Its black and gold finish looked ridiculous against his orange and cream, but it fit well enough, and Jetfire seemed to be happy about it.  He rushed back to the shelf to grab another.

“This installation is to boosting speed and energy levels, this one is reducing pain, this chip is speeding up internal repairs.  Chest and skirt plating are for defense!  These boots are for power kicks.  How I wish he is having a spare arm.”  With each explanation, Jetfire installed a new mod to his frame, becoming quite the mish-mash of mismatched parts.

Surely there was a drawback to piling on so many mods, but Optimus didn’t have the luxury to complain about such things.  Jetfire seemed more lively by the second, and if the mods worked as he claimed they did (he certainly had quite the extensive knowledge of the things!), then he was well-protected.  Jetfire had worked his way through most of the shelf.  By now, he surely had cleaned out all that could be useful.  But he gave pause when his optics fell on one last weapon, an arm-mounted blaster of some kind.

“This,” he said, in a reverential daze.

“You don’t have to carry it, it’ll be good for you,” Optimus commented, though he couldn’t deny that Jetfire’s awed reaction unnerved him.

“There are only two of this exact gun made in the universe.  It is twins, like me and . . .”  He trailed off, a quick shudder wracking his frame, causing the new armor to rattle against his own plating.  For a moment, Optimus feared that Jetfire would suffer some sort of episode; Prowl had warned him of the possibility, but his fears were unwarranted.  Jetfire pulled himself together in a flash, a too-big smile covering up his pain.

“Jetstorm and I used to dream about getting our servos on them.  We were always thinking of what mods would make us into stronger bots, before the accident anyway.  Now we are being the strongest.”

Optimus felt his spark clench, unwilling to correct Jetfire's error, that it was on _he_ who was the strongest now, not "we."  He’d never known the Jet Twins that well, and over their time on the island, had come to think of them as little more than dangerously obsessive followers of Sentinel Prime.  If they managed to make it back home, then he was determined to change this.  Jetfire was a bot – the same as him.  He'd had hopes and dreams, people he'd cared about, a brother he loved.  For a moment, he second-guessed his plan to volunteer Jetfire for this dangerous mission, simply because he himself lacked the bearings to do it.

But he couldn’t back down.  Jetfire wouldn’t allow it anyway.

“What is it?” Optimus asked instead, indicating the weapon.

“It is EMP generator, designed and manufactured during the Great War by Mister Wheeljack himself.  And this one in particularly is top tier.  One shooting from it would be taking down even Lockdown!”

Something about that bothered Optimus.  “Are there any mods that he could be using to protect him from this?  Blackarachnia thinks he has counter-stasis measures in place.  How is this different?”

“Stasis is to only target and rewrite a bot's coding.  That is why you can be controlling level of stasis with a dial.  Is software, in basically.  This, however," he said, struggling to fasten the weapon to his arm without use of his hands.  Eventually Optimus stepped in to help him. "This is hardware.  It's shot is tearing through a bot's frame, disrupting connections and frying circuits so that energy is not transferring to where it needs to go, leaving its target incapable of any action at all until recovery is happening.  They are being completely knocked out!”  Jetfire’s optics lit up as he spoke; Optimus had never seen him so enthusiastic before, and that was saying something, for such an energetic bot.  “He might be having mods to make fast recovery afterwards, but he cannot be blocking this!”

“Sounds good then.”  Optimus began making his way to the door.  “Is there anything else in here that you need?”

Jetfire made one more sweep of the room before he answered with a conclusive, “No.”

“Then come over here, and I’ll fill you in on the plan.”

Jetfire did as he was told; the two remained in the doorway for several minutes, as Optimus explained everything.  Optimus had never seen the young mech so eager to obey his orders before.  Some of that naïve optimism couldn’t help but rub off on Optimus himself.  Maybe they could do this after all.

“So remember, you go in first.  The second I have a clear chance, I’ll get Prowl and Bumblebee out of there, and then join you in the fight.”

“Yes sir!”

They made their way out, with Optimus on cloud nine, feeling better than he had all day.  He was certain, by now, that they would come out victorious.  Would that it would have happened as planned.

Optimus and Jetfire followed the path down the hall, in the direction where he expected the bridge to be.  He hoped his knowledge came through again; Blackarachnia wasn’t answering his comms, a fact that troubled him greatly.  What was she up to?

He was pulled from his worries, however, by the frantic sound of pounding, as if a very small someone was trying to break through one of the heavy steel doors that lined the passage.  He stopped, turning towards the sound.

“Sir?” Jetfire asked, joining him.

“Listen.”

Over the heavy clanging of the impacts, Optimus could just make out the sound of desperate screaming, the screechy, reedy tone and incomprehensible speed were unmistakable. 

“It’s Blurr!” Optimus said, taking a few unconscious steps closer.  What was he doing here?  And moreover, why did he sound so terrified?

Jetfire couldn’t contain his growl.  “Let Blurr rot!  I am not trusting him.  We should go.”

Jetfire was probably right.  Even if he  _did_  trust Blurr, he couldn’t deny that the mech was a bit of an unstable wildcard, in light of what had transpired yesterday – their earlier attempt at communication had proven as much.  But he couldn’t chase away the thought in his head.

Blurr was a powerful mech, with an unmatchable speed, and Optimus needed all the help he could get.  And even if he, like Bulkhead, was too far gone to help, Optimus didn’t feel comfortable leaving him be.  He didn’t know what had set him off, but if Blurr kept fighting the door with such mad frenzy, he was sure to hurt himself.

“He could be useful.  Give me a moment.”

“Sir,” Jetfire protested.  “This is being a bad idea.”

_"Have you fried a circuit?  First you want to arrest him, now you want to follow him to the edge of a sharp and rocky cliff?  Please tell me you're not letting torso boy over there come with you.  No way_ that's _ending well."_

He’d ignored Blackarachnia when she’d said this, and as a result, Waspinator had been killed at the vengeful hands of Bulkhead.  He wasn’t going to repeat that mistake.

“You go on ahead while I deal with Blurr.  Just don’t do anything until I get there.  The plan’s still the same.  The bridge should be just at the end of that hall, at the top of the stairs.”

Jetfire frowned his displeasure, but relinquished a reluctant, “Yes Sir,” before heading off.

Optimus, in the meantime, made his way towards the sound of screams, passing an open door on the way.  He paid it no mind.

“Blurr!  Blurr, is that you?”

An incomprehensible string of babbling followed, and Blurr tried to break the door down with even more desperation.

“Blurr, calm down.  I’m here to let you out.”

The pounding stopped, but the babbling did not.  Optimus feared he had no choice but to break Blurr out of the room, and there was only one _good_ way to do so.  He cycled a vent and opened his comm.  Here went nothing.

“Blackarachnia,” he said, hoping this time she’d answer.  “I need you to open this door for me.”  Nothing.  “Blackarachnia?”

“She’s gone,” Blurr screeched at a somewhat manageable speed.  “She’s gone she’s gone!  He’s gone!  He’s out, he’s free!  And I’m stuck in here!  It’s too small!  I can’t move!  It hurts it hurts it  _hurts_!”

_That_  didn’t sound good at all.  “Look, Blurr.  I’ll get you out of there, okay?  But I need you to calm down.  Can you do that?”

There was a moment of silence before Blurr spoke again, slower this time.  “Calm.  Be calm.  I’m gonna die in here!  No – calm.  Calm calm calm calm calm . . .” He went off like that, in a repetitive loop of the word, much to Optimus’s frustration.  What had  _happened_ to this mech?  Optimus could still recall that first day on this island – the way Blurr had done everything in his power to figure out what had happened, to get everyone back on their feet.  At that moment, Optimus had been impressed, had seen the face of a true Elite Guardsmech – power and wisdom and skill.  What he saw now, however, was a pathetic shadow of what had once been.  Damaged spark or no, this was not the sort of reaction he’d expect from a mech of Blurr’s elite caliber.  There was more going on here.  Optimus took a step away.

“Blurr, listen.  Jetfire and I are going to take out Lockdown.  I’ll be back for you after that, okay?”

Blurr’s reaction was severe as it was instantaneous.  With an ear-splitting shriek, he threw himself at the door again, full force.  “No!  No no no no no!”

It gave Optimus pause.  “Blurr?  What’s wrong?  I can’t understand you like this.”

“Shockwave’s out!” he wailed.  “He’s escaped!  I don’t know how, but he’s gonna kill everyone!  Don’t leave me in here!  It’s too small too small too small!”

And that was the _last_ thing he’d wanted to hear.  He’d been putting off the knowledge that sooner or later, he’d have to deal with Shockwave, hoping against hope that he was out of the picture.  But that had been too much to ask for.  Of  _course_  Shockwave had survived, and of  _course_  he was on the ship, and of  _course_  he was out and about, dangerous as ever.  It was in line with the rest of Optimus’s luck, after all.

“Okay, change of plan.  Blurr, back away from the door.”

“Wha?”

“I’m going to break it down.  I think I’ll have a better chance than you.  Do you have enough room?”

“Not a lot of room, no,” Blurr said, trying his hardest to remain composed.  His grasp on lucidity didn't last long.  “But I’ll be fine.  I just need out!  The walls are too small.  I can’t be in here – nowhere to run!  Can’t run!  Can’t run!”

It was probably as good an answer as he was going to get.  Optimus pulled out his axe, and began hacking.

The weapon was meant for hacking at Decepticons, who, unlike the door, had joints and gaps in plating to take advantage of.  The energy blade wasn't about to grow dull any time soon, but it was, nonetheless not as effective as he would have liked.  After a good many solid hits, he was able to put a sizeable dent in the door, a few more ripped it from its track, and a final heavy swing, left a crack big enough to get his hands through.

He could see Blurr in the darkness on the other side, sallow and wide-eyes, his lanky frame tucked into itself, forming the best approximation of a ball it could manage with all of those sharp angles.  There were sizeable dents about his chest and shoulders, likely from his own effort to escape, and Optimus didn’t miss the disturbing gash travelling down the inside of his right thigh, torn circuits firing off the sparks of energy that found themselves with nowhere to go.  The dried energon staining his frame was another terrifying sight.  There was no way it had all come from him.  Who, then?  Shockwave?   _Jazz_?  Just what had happened to leave him with that haunted look?  To make him lose his mind?

With all of his strength, Optimus pulled at the door, its tattered frame buckling beneath his might with only cursory resistance.

Despite his earlier claims and nasty wound, Blurr was on his unsteady feet the instant the door was down, and hobbling across the hallway to an open door that Optimus had passed earlier.  Even with such a debilitating wound, the guy was fast as his name implied.

"Blurr, wait!"

"He's gone!  I know it!  I heard him leave!  He's gone he's gone!  We're all gonna die."  And then, he began laughing, a frantic cackle that made Optimus's circuits buzz with apprehension.  Primus, this had been a bad idea.

"Blurr, stop!" Optimus ordered, advancing.  "Freaking out isn't going to help anyone."

"Him!  It'll help him, hahah!"  He swayed dangerously, all of his weight sitting on one leg.  "I knew it!  He did this to me!  He wants me to help _him_ , that's it, isn't it?"

"You're not making any sense," Optimus protested, reaching out to catch Blurr as he toppled over.  Evidently, this had been the wrong move.

Blurr started flailing the moment Optimus's hands were on him, wild and terrified, as though he was trying to escape his own death."Get off!  Get off get off get off!"

Startled as he was, Optimus could only hold on tighter.  Blurr, in turn, struggled harder, legs kicking dangerously (for both of them), body twisting and squirming, head shaking.  It was inevitable that one of them would get hurt, and that someone was destined to be Blurr.

The clang of metal – crashing, buckling, was sickeningly loud.  In his desperation to get free, Blurr had slammed his helm into the nearly-impervious adamant crystal of Optimus's windshield; the lighter metal of his helm was what gave way.  Blurr stopped in his struggling, body falling limp in Optimus's arms, and for a second, Optimus feared he had really hurt the poor mech.

"Blurr?"

"I'm fine," he hissed, a resigned tone In his now-controlled voice.  "Frag, everything is spinning.  I think I'm going to be sick."

It no longer seemed as though Blurr would bolt in a blind panic again, so Optimus took a chance and lowered him to the ground.  Blurr stumbled, then turned inward, bracing himself on Optimus's sturdy arm, and staring up at him with unfocused optics and a pained frown.

"Blurr, you look terrible.  You need to rest.  I want you to wait here.  I'm going to go help Jetfire and the others with Lockdown.  Then I'll come right back, and we'll figure out what to do about Shockwave."

Blurr shook his head, slowly.  "I'm fine.  I busted my comm.  The feedback is awful, that's all.  And I guess my leg is messed up  - that too," he chuckled, empty, tired.  "But that's hardly new.  Always gotta be something wrong, right?"

Something was wrong.  Blurr was too complacent, too soon.  Optimus tried to insist.  "Still, I think you should . . . Blurr?" 

Blurr stiffened, optics going wide without warning.  So sudden, so great was the fear his face, that it convinced Optimus that Shockwave was behind him, looming in the doorway.  When he turned to see for himself, however, there was nothing to be found.

"No!" Blurr snapped.  "No no no!  I can't, I'm alone, I can't do alone, I can't I can't!  I need – no no no!"  The next thing Optimus knew was the gust of wind that hit his plating like a blow, as Blurr sped by, clumsy and stumbling and heading straight for the engine room.  Optimus didn't want to follow him, wanted to return to Jetfire – the others needed him!  But Optimus had a sinking feeling in his tanks.  He had little doubt as to what awaited Blurr in the engine room.  He gave chase, Jetfire forgotten.

"Blurr, wait!"

Blurr was fast, but not fast enough.  Running at top speed, Optimus was able to catch up to the wounded speedster.  But while Blurr was built to excel at these speeds, Optimus was not.  He was unable to stop with any grace, and wound up tackling the smaller mech to the ground, sending the both of them sliding painfully along the cold floor and into the engine room.  Optimus could only hope that he hadn't hurt the guy.

Of course, once in the room, Blurr's welfare was rapidly removed from his list of priorities, for there, standing at the computer terminal, and watching him with an emotionless, cracked red optic, was Shockwave.  They were all dead.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're soooooo close. Gah! I don't know how to feel about this!


	46. Life Persists

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the moment. Shockwave versus Optimus. Who will emerge the victor?

They were dead.  For all of their planning, the lies, the murder, for how far he'd dragged Blurr down into the Pit with him, they had failed.  Optimus had caught up, caught _him_ , and recovery mods or no, Shockwave could not fight as he was .  Pit, he could barely stand.

Where had he gone wrong?

That was simple.  He had been mistaken to leave his fate in the servos of a mech who couldn't go three kliks without suffering a major breakdown.  True, Shockwave wasn't totally without guilt.  His desperation to return to Lord Megatron, his shameful display upon learning of his death,  even his misguided decision to pick a fight with Blackarachnia had led to their current predicament.  But ultimately, it was Blurr who'd pulled the trigger, turned them over to their doom.

He'd been leery to rely on the mech from the moment Blurr had awoken in his new prison.  At first, it had been pained whimpering – piteous, but understandable.  Lockdown had severed some major fuel lines, crippled Blurr's ability to run, and effectively brought him back down to everyone else's level.  But the thought of that brute with his hands on Blurr, the memory of watching with helpless fury as his only shot of survival was brutalized before his optic, left Shockwave's claws twitching with the need for violent retribution.

Then the whimpering had turned into panicked screaming.  The bastard had evidently shoved his precious speedster into a cramped _storage closet_ , of all things.  Shockwave had little doubt that Lockdown knew exactly what he was doing when he'd made that choice, though the severity of Blurr's reaction to tight confinement was unnerving.

With a twinge in his spark at hearing the suffering of his beloved from so nearby, Shockwave tried sending a private message to Blurr, but when the mech failed to respond, he'd been forced to comm him directly, risking the possibility of being overheard.

Indeed, Bumblebee had come along shortly after, but thankfully had failed to comprehend the situation.  It didn't matter, Lockdown arrived to cart him off moments later, and his further antagonizing of Blurr in the process gave Shockwave one more reason to destroy the mech.  Blurr was slipping, terrified, mad.  He wouldn't last long in confinement, at the very least.  They had to get out of here, sooner than later. 

It was to his surprise then, that a message from the mech in question popped up on his HUD.  Blurr was barely holding it together, but still, he'd managed to gather enough peace of mind to send messages again.  He was just full of surprises.  _"What are you doing?"_   No doubt, it was in reference to Shockwave's conversation with Bumlebee.

_"What I can.  We have enemies on all sides, Blurr.  And while the Autobots are as weak as they can be, Lockdown is not.  But with any luck, I can manipulate the Autobots into doing some damage before taking themselves out."_

_"Oh."_ Blurr responded, strangely succinct for him.  Still, Shockwave had enough words to cover both of them.

_"If we are to make it out of here alive, we will have to act soon.  I honestly don't have high hopes for us.  I apologize for my earlier indiscretion.  I should have followed your lead."_

_"Oh."_ Blurr said again.  Shockwave wished that he could hear Blurr speak.  It was hard to get a good grasp on his state of mind from messages alone.

_"All we have to our advantage right now is the fact that our enemies believe me to be immobilized."_

_"You may as well be,"_ Blurr accused, the bite behind his words alleviating some of the worry Shockwave felt.   _"You can barely stand, stasis cuffs or no."_

_"This is true.  However, I am capable of transformation, if need be, and I can hack this door at the very least.  Moreover, Lockdown appears to be storing some modifications in this room that I may be able to make use of.  It's better than nothing."_

Blurr didn't reply this time, prompting Shockwave to continue. 

_"That being said, our chances of getting out of this alive are abysmal.  Lockdown is one thing, but Optimus Prime  is also at large, and I suspect that he may have  plan.  But he trusts in you, I am certain.  And I want you to make sure he continues to.  It is to_ your _advantage, in the event I cannot save you.  Is that understood?_

_"It is, Sir."_

Misjudgments as to their abilities and allegiances meant next to nothing, and both Shockwave and Blurr were aware of it.  It would take nothing short of a miracle to get out of this situation.  And as much as Shockwave did not believe in fate, even _he_ couldn't deny that Optimus Prime had impeccable timing. 

Through their short discourse, Optimus and Blackarachnia had provided Shockwave with the information he needed to devise their escape.  This was the turn of events that Shockwave had been waiting for.

" _Did you hear that?"_

_"I did."_

_"Then I think I know how to resolve our predicament.  Optimus will no doubt be back to save the others.  I believe I can work something out for Blackarachnia.  Once she's gone, I'll take over.  If we gather all of our enemies to confined locations – the bridge, the medbay, then I can take them out all at once."_

Blurr didn't respond for a moment, as though he was deliberating on the plan.  "W _hat about Lockdown?"_

Blurr was right to be concerned.  It was unlikely that a mech as fond of mods as Lockdown was  would allow himself to fall prey to his own back-up measures.  Shockwave couldn't fight him, and without his speed, Blurr was not half-so threatening. 

_"Did Optimus strike you as unharmed just now?"_

_"Yes Sir.  I think he was implying similar when he commed me earlier too."_

_"Okay, Optimus will have to near us to get to Jetfire, Bumblebee, or Prowl.  It will be easiest for us if he goes to the medbay first.  And the likelihood of him doing so is high, based on the current situation._

_"I can slip out while he's in.  From there, do everything in your power to get him to stay behind.  What he does with Jetfire is irrelevant.  We want him away from the others, want him awake so he can fight Lockdown."_

_"And if he doesn't stop for Jetfire?"_ Blurr asked.

_"Then he's facing a hostage situation on his own.  I don't think our Prime is up for that.  Have him free you, then take him somewhere else, to Jetfire perhaps – just get him out of here, and then the plan will continue as normal.  It will be more difficult that way, but I have every faith in your abilities, Blurr."_ Last big mistake.

~~~

As predicted, Optimus returned a short time later, and as predicted, he moved in the direction of the medbay.  This was his time to act – and hope that Blackarachnia didn't cause too much trouble.  He opened his comm.

"Shockwave!  You have some nerve calling me after all –"

"I have a proposition for you," Shockwave interrupted before she could get going.

"You want the ship, don't you?"

She'd been rather quick to deduce that.  It put Shockwave on the defensive immediately.  "The thought had occurred to me, yes."

"All right, then."

What?  There was no way this would be so easy.  "What are you planning?"

"What I'm planning is none of your business.  Suffice it to say, I want to go home as much as you do, and I'm a bit farther away than you are.  But I've found something better than a ship that'll just bring me back to some tedious war."

"Is that so?"  What was she on about now?  It was suspicious at the very least, but if it got her out of the way, then he would take it.

"Yes, it's so.  Anyway, since I'm so nice, I'll give you the Death's Head, no trouble.  Just let me take my pick of mods and supplies, and you've got yourself a deal."

It was too good to be true.  But Shockwave wasn't about to argue.  He'd keep his guard up, but this was better than he ever could have hoped for.

"Very well.  You have two kliks to evacuate, before I take over the engine room.  Shockwave out."  He was aware of how very close he was cutting things.  It couldn't take Optimus _that_ long to rescue Jetfire, and they would have to come back this way to get to the bridge.  But Shockwave could not risk letting Blackarachnia see his weakness.  And so he waited.

Two kliks came and went.  It was time for action.  He hacked into his door, opening it with ease.  From across the hallway, he could hear Blurr still whimpering in his closet, and it pained his spark to leave him behind.  If something went wrong, then this very well may be the last time they met.  Goodbyes were a waste of time, but since when did anything involving Blurr make sense?

For a few seconds he stood, hunched in the too-small hallway, his good claw splayed on the tiny door.  "Should this be our last meeting, then I want you to know.  

"I love you."

Blurr didn't respond – he didn't expect him to, not if Optimus could appear at any moment.  But he'd said what he'd wanted.  It was time to go.  He wasted no more time on sentimentality, turned away, and headed for the engine room.

That was not where his plans fell apart.

Blackarachnia had made good on her word, and vacated the premises.  He hacked the system, again with no difficulty.  Surveillance showed that Optimus Prime was currently preoccupied with releasing Blurr from his prison.  Perfect.  That meant he could sweep the bridge.

Only, upon taking in the scene up there, he found that _somehow_ , Jetfire, Bumblebee, and Prowl had defeated Lockdown, and the latter was currently removing that wretched bot's limbs, as well as a few major mods.  And _that_ was where the plan began to fall apart.

He needed to comm Blurr, to tell him to take Optimus to a confined area for the stasis pulse, to assure their victory.  But Blurr didn't answer, and surveillance gave no indication that the mech had even heard the message.  Instead, he was given the sight of Blurr, staring at the floor in a daze, bracing himself on Optimus's arm.  A noticeable dent in his cranial plating provided all the explanation Shockwave needed.  Blurr was cut off, forced to act on his own.

Blurr must have realized the same, for he stiffened quite suddenly, before doing the last thing Shockwave wanted him to.  He bolted.

Surveillance footage left no question as to where he was headed, and to Shockwave's horror, Optimus was following close behind.  He couldn't wait for the plan, couldn't wait for security.  He sent out the stasis pulse and disconnected, having no time to see whether or not it even worked.  Hopefully it did.

His survival now rested solely in his ability to convince the Prime that he was a credible threat.  And so, though his circuits burned and his servos threatened to give out, he forced himself to stand tall, as Optimus tackled Blurr to the ground, sending the pair sliding into the engine room.

There was a long moment as the two bots stared at each other, both unwilling to make the first move – Optimus through fear, and Shockwave through helplessness.  But only one of them needed to  concern himself with appearances.  Shockwave advanced . .  .

Only to be caught completely off-guard as Optimus scrambled to his pedes, and brought Blurr with him, his axe held at ready over Blurr's mid-section, threatening to cleave the delicate bot in two, and effectively creating a  hostage situation of his own.

Blurr, for his part, looked terrified, though Shockwave had no doubt that he could break free if he wanted.  There was something else going on in his pretty head, causing him distress, though that could have been anything by this point.

"I didn't think you had it in you to take hostages, Optimus Prime, but you seem to be under the misassumption that it will stop me."

"Won't it?" Optimus growled, trying and failing to hide his fear beneath a mask of anger.  He jerked away, axe coming perilously close to breaking through the thin metal protecting Blurr's belly.  Blurry though his vision was, Shockwave's optic remained fixed on that dangerous blade.  "You’ve killed for this mech already – that's what Sentinel and Jetstorm were, right?  I think it's safe to say you're invested in his safety."

Were Shockwave at full strength, Optimus would find himself thrashed into a thousand bits of scrap.  As it was, Shockwave could only stare.  Optimus had all the chips here, a fact that Shockwave was only too aware of.  "You won't hurt him," Shockwave asserted, completely confident in his answer, at least as far as Optimus was concerned.

"That's where you're wrong, Shockwave.  Blurr is a soldier, a member of the Elite Guard.  He took an oath to serve our cause, and right now, that means destroying you at any cost, whether we like it or not."

Blurr's optics sought out Shockwave's own, begging, _pleading_ for some kind of guidance.  But Shockwave had none to give.

"Surrender, Shockwave.  You have nothing left to fight for.  Megatron is dead, your people divided.  You've lost."

Optimus was right, of course.  Shockwave's reason for being for the past millions upon millions of years was gone, and he didn't know what sort of mess the so-called 'Loyalists' had made of his movement.  But pride would never let him surrender to an Autobot.  Calling up the last of his energy, he transformed his cannon.  Again, Optimus jerked away.

"I'm afraid you've misjudged me."  Powering up the cannon took energy he didn't have, but with any luck, the bluff would prompt a surrender.

"Wait!  Stop it!  Don't shoot!"  Or Blurr could intervene.  It was the best he could hope for – ultimately, he didn't know if Optimus _would_ back down.  He cut power to his weapon.

"And you too!  Put me down!  I never agreed to be used as literal cannon fodder!"  Optimus didn't move.

"Blurr, you are the only thing standing between him and victory right now," Optimus hissed.  "You can't mean to surrender?"  He narrowed his optics, as though seeing through to Blurr's true intentions.  Shockwave silently cursed the little mech.  What he said here may very well get the _both_ of them killed.

"Are _you_ doctor?  Prowl?  Bumblebee?"

"Blackarachnia is-"

"Gone.  She made a deal with Shockwave and split – I tried to tell you before.  But that's neither here nor there.  We need a doctor – _all_ of us need a doctor, and Shockwave's our best bet.  So call a truce!  Give him his freedom in exchange for his medical expertise and the ship."

"Shockwave won't agree t o –"

"I rather think I will," Shockwave said, perhaps a bit _too_ eagerly.  At the dumbfounded look on Optimus's face, he felt he should explain.

"I never wanted to be on the Orion – never wanted to be _here_ , never wanted to restart the war – not in such a way, and the fact that I was absent, helpless to prevent the fall of my leader . . . you're right – I already _have_ lost.  Your survival matters no to me, I just want to get off this rock, whatever it takes.  So I agree to Blurr's terms, with one caveat."

"And that is?"

"Blurr is mine."  It was perhaps too much to ask for, with his strength rapidly waning, but he wasn't prepared to lose the little nuisance yet.  And he had to admit, it was a rather nice touch that Blurr retreated further into Optimus's grasp, as though in fear, disgust.  For a mech unhinged, he was quite the actor.

Unfortunately, the movement seemed to awaken something protective in Optimus.  He lowered his axe, grave indecision overtaking his face.  "I –"

"You already said that he was prepared to die for the cause.  This should be no different."

"Why Blurr?"

"Why does it matter?  You have my terms.  What will it be?"

Optimus hesitated.  If he took any longer, Shockwave was sure to succumb to his own weakness and collapse again.  He was already losing sensation in his legs.

"Do it," Blurr said, seeming to sense Shockwave's worries.  "My life is worth less than everyone else's, and as you said, I swore to help our cause no matter the cost.  If I can subdue Shockwave, then it's worth it."

"Fine.  I agree to your terms," Optimus said, through gritted dentate.  He released Blurr, who limped ahead a few steps, body shivering through the effort of holding himself together.  From Optimus's vantage point, he would have appeared frightened, but Shockwave could see the worrying emptiness overtaking that exhausted little frame.  But Blurr had done well.  They'd be free soon enough.  And _then_ recovery could come.

But it was not to be.  Victory was snatched from his claws, as his own body blew their cover.  Shockwave collapsed to the ground with a loud crash, too drained to get back up.  Understanding dawned on Optimus, and with all thoughts of a truce forgotten, he lunged forward, axe held high, ready to seize the opportunity to dispatch his greatest enemy.

Desperation seized Shockwave, and he lashed out, grabbing a hold of Blurr in a mimicry of Optimus's earlier stunt, hoping that he'd read the Prime's own character right.  Either he had not, or Optimus had seen through his bluff, for he kept charging, and Shockwave, weak fool that he was, turned away, shielding Blurr with his own body.

The searing heat of an energy axe lashed into his back caused damage enough to white out what little remained of Shockwave's vision, though his thick plating spared his life, for the time being.  Optimus was fast moving in for strike two, and Shockwave doubted he could take another blow.

Audio was the only sense he continued to cling to, so it was with clarity that he heard Blurr's shrill screaming.  No doubt the assault had upset him; he was squirming madly in Shockwave's grasp, and Shockwave had not the energy to keep him.  He didn't bother trying.

He relinquished his hold on the small mech, and turned to face Optimus, raising his bad arm to ward off the second blow.  He couldn't see, could barely taste the air around him, all he could do was swing blindly in the direction of those heavy footsteps, and hope he hit something.

He hit something.

Thin metal was shredded beneath the might of his claws, and a choked gurgle caught his audials, though it was the sensation of a spark flickering weakly around him that revealed the extent of his mistake.

This wasn't Optimus.

The world blurred back into view, just enough for him to make out the thin blue shape hanging from this claws, resting limply against Optimus's chest.

"Blurr!" the Prime called out, horrified, and ever-so slowly.

Shockwave's processor was moving at hyper speed, whether form trauma or from his connection with Blurr's failing spark.  He could see how this would play out – him, pathetically cradling the limp body in his arms, while Optimus, driven by vengeance, finished him off.  And it would have been well-deserved.  But Shockwave had no intention of dying.  There was another way.

In one swift movement, Shockwave removed his claws and whirled Blurr around, ripping off the chest plate that had once been his own, to reveal the fast-dissipating blue light within.  He opened his own chest plate, all the while ignoring the voices in his head that warned him against this, warned that this was an irreversible mistake, that Blurr wasn't worth this.  He pressed that tiny body close, and he allowed his spark to envelop what little remained of Blurr's.

He could feel it pulse softly as the power of his own will forced it back together, as it in turn, reached out to him with what little light it had, blending seamlessly into the larger spark.  The world, already moving in slow-motion, came to a near stop, drawing out the moment into an eternity – and Shockwave devoured each new horrible sensation – the all-encompassing pain, the terror, betrayal, the madness, solitude and sorrow, a flicker of happiness twisted into this dark nightmare, of self-loathing, of death – Shockwave's spark was more than capable of bearing the burden.

But there was something else found in that dying spark too, something small and weak and fighting so hard to stay alive – love, need, desire.  And that feeling, synchronized between two wildly different sparks, was enough to cement their bond.  The energy unleashed was fuel for Shockwave, made him feel alive, strong.  He could see himself through Blurr's fading optics – saw himself as Blurr saw him – giant and monstrous, but strong and safe and dear, and he too, could detect the barest hint of a presence in the back of his own mind, looking down on the tiny mech in his arms.  For one ever-lasting moment, Shockwave and Blurr were one.

But even so, it was over all too soon.  Blurr's spark was saved, if barely – sustained by Shockwave's superior might.  However, his body had been through too much, his _soul_ had been through too much.  Once more, he fell limp, held loosely in Shockwave's good hand.  And Shockwave, half-dead himself, and perhaps more than a little upset by the distress suffered by his own spark, could do nothing more than stare blearily at his new bondmate. 

"What – what have you . . ."

Oh yes.  Optimus was still here.  The Prime was the last thing Shockwave wanted to deal with right now.  And so he didn't bother saying anything.  If Optimus wanted to kill him now, then so be it.  Shockwave was too tired to fight back.

"Is he . . .?"  Optimus sounded terrified, and Shockwave supposed he didn't blame him.  What much that spectacle have looked like to an outsider?

"Alive, if barely.  He is sustained by my own spark."

"And what does that mean for _him_?!" Optimus stormed closer, a growl in his voice.  "What will he be when he wakes up?  Will he be himself?!"

Shockwave did not flinch away from the furious Prime.  "I do not know.  Normally, there would be little change, but he barely had any spark left at all.  I don't know _if_ he will wake up, let alone what he will be like."

He could hear Optimus, just beyond his narrow field of vision, struggling for the words to say.  Shockwave figured he could help.  He wanted more than anything to leave this place – this planet, this room, this conversation.

"If you still want to kill me, feel free.  I will not – physically _can_ not fight back, though I am also all that's keeping Blurr alive."

"He tried to save me," Optimus realized, haunted and lost.  "I –no, I don't think I can."

"Then do what you will.  Arrest me, lock me away.  I'm done fighting."

He felt Optimus move beside him, reach for his claw – for Blurr, but Shockwave pulled away.  "Don't take him from me."  It was an irrational thing to say, to do, and maybe it was the sparkbond talking, but he felt the tiny presence in his claws was all that was keeping _him_ grounded, as strange as that was.

But Optimus was in no mood to play nice, and unable to fight back, Shockwave was forced to live through the pain of losing Blurr all over again, of seeing that tiny, broken frame held in the arms of an Autobot – the enemy.

_He won't hurt him,_ he tried to calm himself to no avail.  And crazy though it was, he may have let out a whimper himself, at the thought of separation.

Shockwave didn't know what happened next.  Perhaps the Prime had put him in stasis cuffs, or maybe he'd at last given in to his wounds, his exhaustion.  All he remembered, was consciousness at last slipping away from him, leaving him in the darkness, alone.

~~~

The next few days passed in a hazy blur.  Shockwave was permitted just enough self-repair to be useful, and then proceeded to allow himself to be dragged wherever his extensive skills were needed.

Lockdown's ship was well-stocked, and so Shockwave had much to work with as, as Blurr had suggested, he made to fix his enemies.  It physically pained him to do such a thing, but he didn't have the mental wherewithal to fight back.  The only bot that mattered, repaired though he was, had still not woken up, and prisoner or no, Shockwave knew he could not stave off this unusual anxiety that afflicted him so long as Blurr remained in stasis.

In addition to his medical knowledge, the Autobots also saw fit to take advantage of his mechanical knowledge.  Blackarachnia had taken more than a _few_ mods and supplies when she'd left, leaving the ship unable to fly without repair.  Once learning of the remaining engine cores that Prowl had taken, there was little question as to why she'd left and what she was planning, but she had completely vanished.  She knew the island better than anyone – it was easy for her to hide herself away.  Finding her had proven near-impossible, and ultimately, Optimus, verging on despair himself, decided to call off the search.  Let Blackarachnia do as she pleased, all Optimus wanted to do was leave this horrible place, and for once, Shockwave and the Prime were in agreement.

He was in the engine room, overseeing the work of Bulkhead and Jetfire, when he felt a sudden pulse within his spark.  Blurr.

"Where are you thinking to be going?" Jetfire snapped, stepping into his path, prepared to fire his new favorite weapon.  Apparently, Shockwave had started walking.  How strange.

"Blurr is awake."

Jetfire remained unswayed.  "You are walking around, but you are still being prisoner.  You are not getting to leave on a whim!"

Optimus Prime, however, had other ideas.  He stood in the doorway, mere kliks later, a grim frown on his ugly Prime face.

"Shockwave," he said, prompting all three bots to face him.  Once attention was his, he continued.  "Blurr is back online."

Shockwave stared on, apathetic to hear the news again, though Jetfire and Bulkhead certainly responded.

"I'm so glad!" Bulkhead said bouncing up on his newly-reinstalled legs, causing the room to shake. 

Jetfire was less enthusiastic, folding his warms with a grimace.  "I do not know why we are letting him live.  Blurr is not to being trusted."

"Blurr is a victim in this, same as any of us," Optimus snapped.  "Moreover, he sacrificed his life to save mine.  It's true he was exhibiting erratic behavior toward the end, but his actions prove his loyalty."

"But I am not thinking he is worth surviving Shockwave for."

Optimus narrowed his optics.  "We need Shockwave, like it or not, and I will not sacrifice Blurr for petty revenge.  My mind will not change on this matter."  And then, turning his unforgiving glare on Shockwave, he added, "He asked for you, the moment he woke up.  He's weak, exhausted, but he's lucid at least.  Prowl suggested it was best to let him see you – apparently fresh bonds are unstable, and the last thing I want is for Blurr to flip out again."  He returned his attention to Jetfire and Bulkhead.

"The two of you will be fine on your own for a moment?"

"All good!" Bulkhead chirped, while Jetfire grumbled, "Yes, Sir."

Shockwave was led from the room in stasis cuffs – he was always in stasis cuffs these days.  But the fog overwhelming his mind and body was nothing compared to the darkness muddling his spark.

He had known about spark bonds in an academic sense, but he hadn't expected to feel like this, with Blurr's desperate physical state taxing him so, throwing his normally sensible self into a pit of anxiety and tension.  And Blurr's awakening had done little to quell this.  His spark was so diminished, that Shockwave could barely feel the bot's presence on the other end, even despite the toll their joining had taken on him.  He couldn't ascertain Blurr's state of mind one way or another, and the thought of throwing away his future for a broken bot did little to ease his unease. 

Soon enough, they reached the cabin in which Blurr had been laid up after undergoing surgery of his own.  He nearly looked his old self, tinted windshield back in place, and Optimus had even painted an Elite Guard sigil over his new chest-plating.  His leg would take more time to heal, but even the scars left by _that_ were not so noticeable now.

But something was wrong.  His posture was too stiff, optics too hollow.  Exhaustion?  Or something more sinister?

"Thank you, Sir," Blurr said, nodding to Optimus.  His voice was too slow, too rough, too flat.  Shockwave didn't like it.  "I know it is a lot to ask, but might I have a moment?  This is all very disorienting for me."

Optimus didn't hesitate before agreeing.  "Of course.  I'll be outside if you need me."

The door slid shut behind the Prime, leaving Shockwave alone with his not-quite-right bondmate.  He watched with one wary optic as Blurr remained seated on the recharge slab, long legs dangling just above the ground.  His own optics watched Shockwave with a quiet intensity.

"Show me your spark."

It was a forward request for Blurr to make, enough so that Shockwave hesitated.  But what was the harm in it?  It was Blurr's spark now too.  He slid open his chest plates, flinching as the icy air of the room bit at him.  Why was it so cold in here?

Blurr was standing before him in an instant, though what usually appeared to Shockwave as a flash of blue, now had shape, motion – he could see Blurr's lightning-fast movements now.  Interesting.

"Kneel for me."

Shockwave didn't hesitate to obey this time, though the commanding tone was still a little off-putting.

Finally, once his spark was at optic-level with Blurr, the little bot relaxed, his frame taking on a vague resemblance to the Blurr that Shockwave knew.

"That's me now," he muttered, the words fast as usual.  "I'm in there, almost all that's left of me is in you.  And in here –" he opened his own chamber, and Shockwave had to resist the pull on his spark, the need to be one once more.  "In here, it is mostly you.  I don't feel like me anymore – the way I think , the way I feel – it's all you, or it was.  Looking at your spark – _our_ spark like this, I think I feel a glimmer of my old self.  It's a little scary, to be honest.  I don't think spark bonding is supposed to work like that, is supposed to be used to revive a mech that's already dead."

"Indeed, it is not," Shockwave agreed.  "But I'd seen the way you'd responded to my spark earlier, as though its influence held you together, so I thought it would be worth trying.  At the time, it even seemed to me that my spark is large enough to support two lives.  Now I'm not so certain."

"You shouldn't have saved me."

"Perhaps not," Shockwave agreed.  "Optimus would have killed me had I let you die, however.  I chose life for us both, and for now, I have no intention of reneging.

"Though, while we're passing the blame, I may ask why _you_ acted as you did.  You threw yourself in range of my claws.  You knew what would happen.  But I fear I don't understand your motives."

Blurr shrugged.  "You weren't going to hit him.  You under-swung.  He would have had a clear shot at you afterwards, and I – well, I don't think I was prepared to lose you.  I wasn't thinking that far ahead.   I didn't even consider the possibility that I'd die.  But I knew if I could get between the two of you, I could postpone your death, and from Optimus's perspective, it appeared that I had saved him, so, as you ordered, I kept his trust."

"I see," said Shockwave.  He didn't want to dwell on this anymore.  He wondered if it was Blurr's influence that transformed the unpleasant into the upsetting, but memories of that moment caused him great discomfort; it was best to move on.

"So," Blurr continued.  "What now?  Do you have a plan?  Or would you rather I kill everyone?  Though to be honest, I'm not certain I could right now."

"I don't know," Shockwave sighed.  "It seems that I too, was not thinking very far ahead, though I suppose wherever we end up, we're stuck together.  The thought of being apart for you makes me ill.  I do not like this sensation."

Blurr watched him with a flat frown.  "Are you going to be all right with that arrangement?  Being stuck with me?  I know I got off easy in the end, but you must be quite strained with the both of us living off of you.  A spark bond should be a give-and-take relationship, but all I can do is take.  I wonder if it would be better in the long run if I were to just die."

"No!" Shockwave snapped, with an enthusiasm that surprised even himself.  "You're the only leverage I have with the Autobots.  This – _arrangement_ will be difficult, perhaps a little unpleasant, but I will adjust.  I always do."

Blurr moved closer, resting his servos on Shockwave's chest, and again, Shockwave resisted the urge to let his spark reach out and consume.  This conversation was too important, and who knew _when_ they'd have the opportunity to talk again.  "Understood.  Though you do realize that, on our current course, you will be imprisoned at the very least, and we will be forcibly divided.  This outcome is terrifying for me, for you too, I'm sure.  We can't go back with the Autobots.  We need to escape."

"We can't," Shockwave said.  "Neither of us are in any state to flee, let alone mutiny, and unlike Blackarachnia, I could not conceal myself on this island so easily, even if the thought of staying didn't fill me with disgust.  Optimus and the others would catch us, and then we would both perish."

Blurr pulled away, his face unreadable, and in that moment, Shockwave would have done anything to get him back to his spark.  It was becoming increasingly difficult to resist the command of his programming, and though there wasn't much they could do with Optimus waiting outside, he wanted to make the moment stretch as far as it could.  "But that doesn't mean we won't."

"Is that so?" Blurr responded, his helm tilted, though his expression remained sadly flat.  Already, Shockwave found himself missing those expressive optics that had lured him in.  Would he ever see them again?  Or were they gone forever?  Only time could tell.

"There are too many unknown variables right now, but there may be a few options for us, once we have more information," he extended his arm, wrapping a claw around Blurr, who allowed himself to be dragged closer.  "Ultimately, my aim is to join with the Loyalists, in hope of carrying out my Master's schemes.  But that is irrelevant at the moment.  We will work this out when we can.  For now, I just want to be with you."

Once more, he pressed Blurr close, reached out with his spark, and was pleased to find Blurr moving to meet him.  The sensation was strange, wavering and frantic, likely a sign of their twisted, broken bond, but such was true of the rest of their relationship as a whole, wasn't it?  The unpleasantness didn't matter to Shockwave – they fit together like this, were meant to be together from here on in.  And so they would stay, if he had any power at all.

All too soon, the moment was over.  All too soon, Optimus returned, sent Shockwave back to work in the engine room.  All too soon, the ship was repaired, and with no more tasks required of him, he was forced into isolation, imprisonment.  He saw very little of Blurr from there on in. 

And then, finally, after nearly a lunar cycle of being trapped in this hellish prison, this organic nightmare of a planet, they were gone, on their way back to a home that may or may not still be.  He didn't know what to expect, whether they'd even make it back to Cyberton, what would become of himself upon their arrival, or of Blurr.  For once in his life, control was completely out of his claws, and though it terrified him, it was also strangely peaceful, knowing that there was nothing he could do but rely on others. 

He had fallen far, and in such a short time.  One lunar cycle ago, his time, he was the respected head of Autobot Intelligence, siphoning key information to the Decepticons on the side, with Blurr, a small, but appreciated blip on his radar.  He had all the plans, he held all the chips, he was intoxicated by the power, with the world around him as his plaything.  And in the shuttering of an optic, it was all gone.

He hadn't entered the lottery, hadn't wanted to board the Orion, hadn't participated in the ship's convoluted destruction, and yet he'd found himself the victim of the twisted hands of fate, cut off from everything he'd ever cared about, and dragged kicking and screaming into the adoring arms of the enemy.  And he'd been changed, for the worse most like, through the desperation and fear, through his weakness, and even some degree of love.  And though a part of him hated the bot he'd become, he was not so keen to give up what little he'd gained, nor retrieve the many things he'd lost.  To pine for things he had not was weak, and stood counter to the Decepticon way.

Shockwave did not know what the future would bring.  They could find themselves stumbling onto a battlefield before they even made it home, or perhaps Lockdown had more tricks up his sleeve, or maybe the Autobots would choose not to spare Blurr in the end, and execute the both of them, or even the lot of them, if their new leadership was anything like Sentinel.  But none of it mattered.

Shockwave was patient – a fighter, a thinker, and his new half was much the same.  Maybe they wouldn't make it, but Shockwave would do everything in his power to ensure otherwise.  They hadn't lost the war, merely the battle, and in the end, it was _he_ who would stand victorious, and regain his former glory, with Blurr by his side.  In time. 

For now, all he could do was wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for epilogue.
> 
> Also, merry Christmas!


	47. One Stellar Cycle Later . . .

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life goes on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 'fan' art gallery has grown!  
> [ Here's ](http://darksidekelz.tumblr.com/post/136313686259/and-youre-my-enemy-and-we-should-want-each-other#notes) one from chapter 37. (Warning for some robo-blood)

Bumblebee laid down his single Action Master pair with a groan, certain that Bulkhead would counter it, but for the first time in several hundred stellar cycles of playing Fullstasis, his friend had nothing.

"No way!"

"Looks like you win, Little Buddy," Bulkhead admitted, an equal expression of shock on his face.  "Wanna play again?  We could get Hot Shot and Red Alert in this time too."

Bumblebee thought it over.  "Do you think we got time?  We're supposed to be heading out to Gorlam Prime soon, and I wanna have ample time to prepare myself if I'm gonna be beating up Decepticons!"

"Radicals," Bulkhead reminded.  "Decepticon _Radicals_.  We're in a truce with the Loyalists right now.  Besides, it's only recon.  We shouldn't be beating anybody up."

"I like to be prepared for anything," Bumblebee grinned, though his smile quickly fell flat.  "But it's still weird to me that we're calling _Decepticons_ our allies now.  You know they're gonna turn on us the second we take out Starscream for them."

"Yeah, but enemy of an enemy is my friend, is the idea, I guess."  He frowned, tapping a massive digit to his chin.  "But who knows?  Maybe we can work something else out?  The two of _us_ got into the military; I think anything is possible."

Bumblebee himself wasn't so sure.  He'd long since ceased to see the world as a simple place where a bot could make anything happen if he was only brave enough to try.  Sometimes good bots died, and sometimes the bad guys won, and sometimes the good guys did unforgivable things for the greater good, and the bad guys turned out to be relatable bots fighting for what they thought right.  It wasn't fair, and it wasn't right, but that was life as he'd come to know it. 

Right now, Bumblebee, part of Optimus Prime's hand-picked squad of specialists, was well on his way to achieving his life-long dream of instatement into the Elite Guard, but his accomplishments felt more a hollow victory than anything.  Cybertron had been turned on its head, everyone he'd known before the war was dead, he'd lucked out of well-deserved punishment for his negligence, and when it came down to it, after seeing the true face of the Elite Guard – the corruption, the manipulation, the darkness, he wasn't quite certain he still wanted any part in it.  Pride alone kept him moving forward at this point, but despite his brave face, right now, he just wanted to get out of here, go to Gorlam Prime, finish the scouting mission, and get back home for his few days respite before the next mission. 

He groaned, falling backwards to stretch out on the floor.  "Where _is_ Optimus, anyway?  We should be on the road by now."

Bulkhead, sensing that the game was over, began picking up the cards and tokens, shoving them into his subspace.  "The Magnus wanted to talk to him about something before we left, so he's over at Trypticon.  Jetfire went with him."

Bumblebee perked up.  "Why didn't _I_ know about this?"

"I think you were getting something from the supply room at the time.  It was all pretty informal though; I can't imagine it's that big a deal, but well, when the Magnus calls –"

"The Magnus is a joke," Bumblebee snapped, loud enough to earn a sharp glare from Red Alert, who'd been sitting at her station, double-checking the inventory.  The conversation fell into an awkward silence from there.  The other mechs on the Omega Supreme could get so snippy when it came to defending the honor of the Magnus.  Spoil sports.

"Trypticon, eh?" he murmured, once Red Alert returned attention to her monitor.  "Do you think he'll visit Prowl?"

"Undoubtedly."

~~~

"It doesn't have to be this way," Optimus protested.  The mech on the other side of the bars gave only the barest indication that he'd heard anything, still sitting cross-legged on the floor, the light behind his visor dimmed as ever.  Optimus decided to continue.  "I have some degree of political sway.  I can get you a spot on my ship, in my crew.  Bumblebee and Bulkhead would be glad to see you again, and I know Jetfire especially would.  He keeps asking after you – he won't come inside though – says it's not right.  But that's Jetfire."

Prowl turned a morose optic on Optimus.  "You already know my answer."

Optimus sighed.  Yes, he did.  This was not the first time they'd had this conversation.  Rather, Optimus would visit the prison between missions, and each time, he would ask Prowl to join his crew.  The mech was nothing if not stubborn.

"You know what happened wasn't your fault.  Responsibility for the war has been pretty firmly placed on Starscream and Lockdown."

But Prowl didn't seem to agree.  "I am every bit as responsible for the war as Lockdown.  I was the one who sabotaged the ship, and I was the one who killed Master Yoketron – allowed the Autobot protoforms to fall into the hands of the Decepticons."

"But you didn't know what you were doing!"

Despite Optimus's vehemence, Prowl remained calmly persistent.  "This does not change the result.  And it should be known that I knew exactly what I was doing, at least in the beginning.  My place is here."

Optimus wasn't ready to give in yet.  "But think of all the good you can do out here!"

"More killing.  I've had my fill of it.  Decepticon not, a spark is a spark.  Every death on the Orion, on the island, in the war – thousands upon thousands of sparks, are all on my conscience.  I would rather never see the light of day again, than kill one more bot."

Optimus didn't have an argument to that.  He deflated with a sigh of air from his vents.  "At least consider it?"

And without any sense of sincerity, Prowl responded, "I will."

They spoke for a small bit longer, but neither mech was known for his conversational skills, and Optimus _did_ have business to attend to.  He bid Prowl farewell, promising he'd be back after his mission, and despite the distance the bot maintained, Optimus got the sense that Prowl was sad to see him go.  He would be too, were he in the mech's place.

Prowl didn't get many visitors, certainly none who hadn't struggled through the hell that was Energoa with him.  All he had left was the tiny cell he called home these days, and the vague remaining presence of Lockdown, whose spark had been extracted and placed in cold-stasis after extensive interrogation.  A horrific fate for a horrific mech.

In the hall, Jetfire stood at attention, waiting for Optimus.  The commissioning of the Aerialbots, a band of five experienced soldiers, had replaced the Jet Twins as the Autobots' primary flying gestalt unit.  Now, outshone by the newcomers in every conceivable way, the poor kid struggled to find his place in a world where he was no longer special, and moreover, alone.  Lately, it had been as Optimus's right-hand mech.  It was a weird adjustment for them both, but Jetfire was a surprisingly smart bot, when he allowed himself to be.  It was a shame that Sentinel had only seen fit to use him as muscle.

"You don't have to wait out here, you know.  I know you want to see him."

"Prisoners are being punished," Jetfire protested with a sour frown.  "I should not be making happy conversation with prisoner."  Then again, there were parts of Sentinel within him that would never disappear.  Annoying though it was, it was the primary reason Optimus kept the bot around.  He was pragmatic where Optimus knew he could not be, striking an unlikely balance between the two.

"Sometimes I wonder if you really believe that," Optimus mused.  Jetfire had no answer for him.

The pair began to walk, down the cold, unwelcoming halls of Trypticon prison, and toward Interrogation Room A.  On principle, Optimus preferred to avoid the interrogation rooms, though he knew full-well that ignoring their existence was little better than participating in the evil that went on inside with his own servos.  He knew that the information they received could prove vital to their survival, but with the methods employed, Optimus sometimes had to wonder if it was worth it.

"I wonder what he wants to talk about," he said after a moment's silence, trying to distract himself from such grim thoughts.

"I am not knowing," Jetfire said with a shrug.  "But we are to meeting at Trypticon instead of Fortress Maximus II, so I am thinking it is involving a prisoner."

"You don't think it's Prowl?  Or maybe Lockdown?" Optimus pondered, casting Jetfire a nervous glance.

"Or . . ." Jetfire trailed off with a shudder.

"Primus, I hope it's not about Shockwave."  Optimus had seen the mech a single time after their return to Cybertron, and that was to speak at his trial.  Shockwave was a strange case indeed.  Despite being a Decepticon spy, the crimes he was charged of were all made in times of peace, and thus deemed irrelevant by the sudden war.  His subterfuge  had been connected to the previous Great War, rather than the ongoing, and his four counts of convicted murder, even with one target being a Prime, paled in comparison with the likes of the war criminals brought in these days.  Even _Prowl_ had done worse.  Moreover, their temporary alliance with Shockwave's preferred faction made his imprisonment a political nightmare.

But the Autobots weren't about to let that monster walk free. 

Everyone knew that Shockwave was a dangerous mech, allowed to live only by the grace of the high council, who had deemed Blurr's continued survival as worth more than the conspirator's death.  As it was, he was confined to a maximum-security cell with no visitors, at least, that had been the case one stellar cycle ago.  Optimus hoped no one had been foolish enough to change that.

Either way, they were about to find out.

The interrogation room stood open before the pair.  Rodimus Magnus turned to greet them with a wave, as they entered, but Perceptor never took his eyes off the window separating them from the _actual_ interrogation.  On the other side of the glass, Optimus could see an unknown Decepticon suffering a fair degree of wear-and-tear, cowering in fear beneath the ministrations of a familiar blue speedster.

"Is that Blurr?!" Optimus blurted, forgetting his manners for a moment.  "Apologies, Sir," he said with a bob of his head, acknowledging the Magnus.

"Don't sweat it," Rodimus said.  It was still surreal to see the young, brash mech occupying the role of his former mentor.  Already, Optimus could see the job taking its told – stress fractures lined his once-smooth face, his famously-flashy paint-job had grown dull from lack of upkeep.  Apparently, Rodimus prime had been the highest-ranked mech still living at the time of Ultra Magnus's death, and his admirable performance in the battle that wiped half of Iacon earned him enough credibility to take over.  Optimus wasn't certain the young mech was best for the job, but he was well-liked by the population at least.  "I was actually hoping to talk to you about him."

That made little sense to Optimus.  "You want to talk to me about _Blurr_?" he said, tilting his helm.    "I've scarcely seen him since we returned.  I don't think there's much I could chip in."

Rodimus, however, shook his head.  "You were with him on Energoa.  You witnessed his change yourself.  You know him in a way that few others could," he trailed off, wearing a conflicted frown that Optimus couldn't begin to understand.  Despite the explanation, Optimus had trouble believing the Magnus's words.  True though they were, he couldn't help but feel that Blurr's colleagues in the Elite Guard, or perhaps the Intelligence Agency would know him better.  Even Rodimus himself had been working closely with Blurr for the past stellar cycle.  Why was Optimus's information any more valuable?

The Magnus continued.  "I've been growing a bit worried lately, so I want to ask, does that seem normal to you?"  He gestured back toward the window, where Blurr was circling the Decepticon like a scavenger, looking for the best piece to tear off.  There was a flash of movement, and though Optimus couldn't see what he'd done, he did see its aftereffects – the splatter of energon, the Decepticon's pained flailing.

"I don't think I ever expected this from him, but I wouldn't put anything past him, either.  What Sentinel did changed him pretty badly, and Jazz's death took the last shreds of his sanity.  Honestly, he was _more_ recognizable as himself after Shockwave forced himself on  . . ." he trailed off, suppressing the horrific memory of Shockwave's spark, twisting itself into Blurr's, warping and defiling it, as Optimus looked on in horror.  "But _this_ seems a bit much.  What's he even doing in there?"

The empty voice of Perceptor answered.  "The subject performed adequately as head of Intelligence for a time, but his increasingly aloof behavior has warranted a demotion, as we remain uncertain as to how much influence Shockwave holds over him, as well as the state of his own physical and mental health.  He has proven an effective interrogator, however, though again, that may be Shockwave's doing."

"I'm worried about him," Rodimus added.  "He's always been a little distant, but when I talk to him these days, he feels . . . fake, I guess.  Like he's wearing the face of his old self to fool us.  Honestly, the only time I feel like he's there at all, is after he visits Shockwave, and even then, he's pretty drained.

"You let him visit Shockwave?"  That was not news Optimus cared to hear one bit.  As far as he was concerned, the farther they kept Blurr from Shockwave, the better it would be for everyone.

"Not immediately," said Rodimus, waving away Optimus's worry.  "He's proven himself trustworthy, and he's also the only bot capable of getting any information out of Shockwave.  I mean, he's the only reason we _have_ an alliance with the Loyalists in the first place, unstable as it is.  It was with Shockwave's assistance that he was able to negotiate that.  My hope is that we've opened the door to discuss something more permanent, but – well, that doesn't really matter just now."

The alliance with the Decepticon Loyalists had been the most controversial act of Rodimus's short tenure, but unpopular though it was, Optimus couldn't argue with the results.  Fighting a war on one front was much easier than two, and the addition of Decepticon forces had more than doubled their dwindling ranks.  Still, it made him uneasy.

"We're here to talk about Blurr, not politics.  Let's get back to that."

Optimus frowned.  "Yes.  What exactly is it you're asking here?  You clearly trust him, so what does my opinion matter?"

"Well," Rodimus said, drawing out the word, hesitant.  "I was considering sending him back into the field.  There's something really wrong with him, and I don't think sticking around here is helping.  It seems to me that he's become a bit too reliant on Shockwave, and the thought of that makes me nervous.  The last thing I want to do is be forced to kill him, should our alliance fall apart."

"So you want to – what, send him with me?"

"Only if you think it a good idea.  This isn't an order, Prime.  Just something t consider.  What do you think?"

Optimus took a moment to toss the idea around, sparing a glance at Blurr behind the glass.  The Decepticon was leaning fully on the table, lips moving in a resigned sort of way.  Optimus couldn't hear the words, but Perceptor was listening in, and probably Rodimus to, based on the troubled frown he shot Blurr, not that the mech could see him.

There was no doubt that Blurr was different, though how different it was hard to say.  He was confident, competent, with bright optics and vivid plating, just as he'd been when Optimus first met him.  And judging by his success with the Decepticons, he still had a way with (his very many) words.

But there was something missing, something Optimus couldn't put his finger on.  He'd clearly lost something important when Shockwave had torn apart his spark, something too invisible to be easily fixed.  Come to think of it, there were things about him, the way he held himself, the presence he gave off, that were rather reminiscent of Shockwave himself.  It sent prickles of static through Optimus's circuits.  "I think I will have to decline.  I don't feel there's any place for him on my ship."

"I understand," said Rodimus with a frown.  "I guess I was just hoping for a way to get him back to normal functioning capacity that didn't involve leaving him at the mercy of a known enemy – well, former-enemy."  He groaned, weary and resigned.

"Honestly," said Optimus, optics fixed on the eerily blue interrogator, "I don't think there _is_ a way.  He shouldn't even be alive after what Shockwave did to him.  Whatever is wrong with him lies too deep to be cured by a change of scenery or even emotional support."

"So you're saying that I should leave him as is?"

Optimus rubbed the crest of his helm; he could feel a processor-ache brewing.  "I don't know _what_ to do about Blurr.  I don't like the idea of leaving him with Shockwave at all.  In fact, I think it's a _terrible_ idea.  If there's one thing I _do_ know about Blurr, it's that he's at his worst when he's around Shockwave.  But if that's the only thing that helps, then it's the only thing that helps. 

"And who knows, maybe you're on to something with getting him off-planet.  But we're heading into a delicate situation, and the last thing I want is to be in enemy territory with a panicking mech that runs into danger, rather than away."  Even though Blurr's "death" had been Shockwave's fault, and even to a degree, his own, there was still a part of Optimus that blamed himself.  If he hadn't let Blurr out of that closet, if he'd held on tighter, if he'd been stronger, faster, able to stop Shockwave first . . .

He returned his attention to that blue figure behind the window, wiping the energon from his servos with a look of icy detachment, so ill-fitting on the face of such an enthusiastic mech.  The Decepticon was unconscious.

Optimus had never been close to Blurr, had known him for a scant few days before their situation destroyed him.  But even so, _that_ expression on the face of a mech who had saved his life left Optimus deeply uneasy.

_~~~_

Blurr wiped the mech fluids from his hands, ignoring the unconscious form of Motormaster at the table.  For a mech that ranked so high amongst the Radicals, he hadn't known nearly as much as hoped.  Shockwave had suspected it.  The Radicals were mechanized anarchy, ruled by the mech with the highest body count.  It wouldn't be long before Starscream found himself suffering the same fate as the late Megatron.  He had fallen off the radar, not because he feared the Autobots or the Loyalists, but because he feared his own allies.  The movement had the potential to take itself out if left to its own devices, provided a better leader didn't creep in to fill the void – an unlikely prospect.  It wasn't easy to find a mech with the power and charisma of Megatron.

Motormaster had spilled all he knew, and Blurr didn't feel remotely enlightened.  He was not annoyed or disappointed – couldn't have been even if he'd _wanted_ to be, and he was pretty sure that he did, _should_ anyway.  Blurr felt very little these days, no jubilation upon news of victory nor sorrow for failure.  He lived his days in an icy haze, awakened only in the brief moments he had contact with his fading spark, kept alive in Shockwave's chest.  And despite his attempts to convince his comrades otherwise, the distance between him and the universe was growing deeper by the day.  There would likely come a time that even Shockwave couldn't pull him back, and then what?  The prospect was not a pleasant one.

But there was work to be done at the moment.  With the energon cleaned from his frame, and his most-convincing smile pasted to his lips, he stepped back into the surveillance room.  The clean-up crew would return Motormaster to his cell.

"Optimus!" he stuttered, momentarily surprised to see the Prime.  He'd scarcely seen any sign of the mech since their escape from Energoa.

"Blurr," Optimus acknowledged.

What was Optimus doing here?  And why did he wear a look of worry, a look matched by Rodimus, and directed at him?  That didn't bode well at all.

"If you don't mind my asking, Sir, what are you doing here?"  Blurr asked, putting on the mask of the chipper bot he used to be.  To his own audials, he sounded flat and exhausted, but maybe he would fool the others. 

"I asked him here," said Rodimus, in a tone of voice that implied he was very much hiding something.  "I had some personal matters to discuss with him before he headed out.  But we were just about wrapping up here."

_'Personal Matters?' or 'You?'_ Blurr wondered, almost certain that it was the latter.  Was he under suspicions?  Would they take him away from Shockwave?  A pulse of fear radiated in him at the thought.  Leave it to Shockwave to make him feel anything at all.

"Okay then," He accepted, determined to keep his fears a secret.  He wasn't sure why.  There was no real reason that Rodimus couldn't know such things – he was a more reasonable mech than Sentinel had been, at least.  Perhaps he'd just grown so used to lying about himself, and his relationship, that idea of telling the truth was unthinkable.  "In regards to Motormaster . . ." he said, changing the subject.

"Leave your report on my desk.  We'll discuss it later.  I need to talk a few things over with Perceptor first."

"Understood Sir," he hesitated, a thing that came more easily to him these days.  "I would like to request your permission to visit Shockwave."  It was desperate, even dangerous, if the Autobots were, in fact, suspicious of him, but it had been far too long – he could feel himself slipping away more and more by the second.

"Huh?  Uhh, sure," was the Magnus's casual reply.

"Thank you, Sir.  Optimus."  He nodded as he made his escape.  He felt suspicious optics on his back as he left.  Yes, they had _definitely_ been talking about him, paranoid as it sounded.  But they said nothing.  That confrontation would come later. 

For now, it was time to follow the familiar path to Shockwave's room.

Shockwave was locked away in the deepest basement of Trypticon Prison, an area reserved for the most dangerous of criminals.  It was annoying, not to mention unjustified, but it was a perfectly reasonable precaution, all things considered.  The dungeons were cold and dank enough for frost to form on one's frame, proving dangerous to bots with more sensitive circuitry.  The Minicons who guarded the place didn't seem to mind it, however.

Long after Perceptor and Warpath stopped accompanying him on these visits – a precaution, to  ensure he wasn't engaging in acts of political subterfuge, the Minicons continued to regard Blurr with mistrust.  To their simple processors, there was no reason at all to visit a prisoner with as much frequency as Blurr did.

Every week (sometimes more than once), Blurr arrived in Shockwave's unlit, undersized, empty cell for a dose of sanity, for the both of them.  There were no bars, but solid reinforced steel on ever cramped wall – to prevent even the slightest visual stimulation.  Even with his infinite patience, Shockwave was not unaffected by his confinement, and bearing the weight of Blurr's still-dying spark took more out of him that he cared to admit.  At the current rate, Blurr knew it was only a matter of time before one of them lost his mind.

Resisting the urge to scurry, Blurr passed the guards end entered the cell.

Shockwave's optic stood like a beacon in the darkness of the room, alighting further at Blurr's presence.  Blurr himself felt a surge of emotion at the sight, but did not act on it, not until the moment the door slammed shut behind him.  At that point, Blurr, more alive than he'd felt all week, raced to his mate, wrapping his arms best he could around that much larger body, and pulled that unmovable object close as he could.

The low ceiling of the cell forced Shockwave to sit, unable to transform while wearing the inhibitor clamp.  It was a horrific fate for a giant like Shockwave, who took his captivity mostly in stride, but it _did_ put his chest at the perfect height for Blurr to lean his head against it, to hear the steady thrum of his spark.  He felt more himself already.

"I have missed you," Shockwave crooned, voice gruff with the static of disuse.  Blurr said nothing, instead, pulling Shockwave even tighter, burying his face in that solid chest.  "What is troubling you?"

"I think I've given Rodimus cause for suspicion.  I don't know whether from my deterioration or if it's something else altogether, but I'm afraid that he's going to try and separate us, which – I mean, I suppose I could tell him not to, explain what I think is happening, and I don't know, Perceptor's a smart mech – maybe he can figure out a way to fix this."  He pulled away just enough to place a servo over his closed spark chamber.

Shockwave bristled at the words, causing Blurr to deflate.  "Sorry, I know you aren't keen on Perceptor digging around in your spark.  It was a suggestion, though maybe not a very good one.  It's hard to think like this."

"I know," said Shockwave, in a tone Blurr didn't like at all.  There was definite anger in his voice, and Blurr knew that some of it was directed at him.  As much as Shockwave loved him, he still had trouble not regarding Blurr as the cause of his ultimate undoing, and it was true, wasn't it?  It was a miracle Shockwave could stand to be in his presence. 

But when Shockwave spoke again, his voice held the same affection it always did.  The mech was too good to him.  "It's affecting me as well.  We need to get out of here, sooner than later.  What were you able to find from Motormaster?"

"Well, you were right about using the other Stunticons as leverage, but he didn't have anything we didn't already know.  Starscream's in hiding, and the Radicals are, by and large, acting in their own isolated clusters – it seems as though they're fracturing at an alarming rate."

"It's to be expected.  If these bots were discontent enough with Megatron's leadership to rebel, then they would never follow Starscream.  And the Predacons, programmed specially to fight for the Radical cause will naturally be subject to mimicking the discontent of their comrades.  It is a recipe for further disaster.  The wretch's ambition has damned us all."  A flash of light reflected off silver, as Shockwave clenched his claws.  "Would that I could tear out his spark myself."

Blurr scurried up Shockwave's chest, gently nuzzling an antenna.  The tension drained from that heavy frame; he let a soft hiss of air escape his vents, which turned to steam in the icy room. 

"How long do you suppose it will take for the radicals to completely fall apart?" Blurr asked, planting a trail of soft kisses near the base of the antenna in a further effort at placation.  Shockwave leaned backward, too content to remain upright, though he didn't make it far before hitting a wall.  He took the opportunity to run his own claws down Blurr's back.

"Longer than we have, I fear.  They're down, but they're fighters – the lot of them."

Blurr wracked his increasingly distracted processor for a better solution.  There was a time when Blurr felt he and Shockwave could solve any problem through their own brainstorming, but these days, either from separation or the weakness of his spark, or a combination of both, Blurr found it hard to focus whenever Shockwave was around; the ecstatic pounding of his spark filling his audials in surround sound was all he could hear.

"Do you think we can negotiate our alliance with the Loyalists into something more permanent?"

Shockwave's claws froze at the base of Blurr's neck, stiffening at the words. 

"Shockwave?"

"I do not know," he said at last, resuming his former ministrations.  "Peace is a strange prospect for me, and I imagine General Strika and Lugnut would be less willing than I to play nice with the Autobots forever.  Still, from a strategic standpoint, it may very well be our best option.  And it may prove a more expedient method than waiting for the Radicals to destroy themselves.  I shall think on it.

"But for now, let us enjoy our time together.  It is far too scarce a thing to take for granted."

On the one hand, Blurr did not want to simply ignore the looming truths of their situation in favor of momentary happiness, but Shockwave's idea was not disagreeable.  He had no further orders at the moment, nor did Rodimus, and Blurr was growing far too distracted to continue to search for another solution to their predicament.  If they found one, great, and if not . . . well, Blurr was living on borrowed time already.  And his sad state of a life was not one he would exactly miss, though he did worry what would happen to Shockwave, should his spark finally finish giving out. 

It was a grim notion, and not one Blurr cared to dwell on, least of all while Shockwave's claws were tracing delicate patterns down his thighs, across his chest.  Business could wait.  Shockwave was pleasure, and right now, it was time to indulge.

He opened his spark chamber with a soft whirr . . .

~~~

It was done!  A full stellar cycle of hard work had at long last come to fruition.  Blackarachnia stared at her prize, at this slapped-together work of art that had come into being by her own hands.  The time-space bridge, at least, that's what she hoped it was.

She felt fairly confident in the theory behind her work, and the engine components she'd dug up from Prowl's favorite hidey-hole had been easy enough to convert into her space bridge plans.  All that was left was to put it to the test, not that there was any good way to do so.

"Why izzz Spider Lady looking so happy?  Izz it finished?"  Waspinator hissed curiously, and for a second Blackarachnia debated shoving him through first, as a test run.

But the bridge was one-way.  She'd have no way of knowing where and in how many pieces he would come out, and ultimately, she felt it would be a waste of all the hard work she'd put into reassembling the dying scrap metal she'd salvaged from the cove he'd washed up in.  As much of a pain as Waspinator was, the fact remained that the island was a lonely place, and Blackarachnia had been none-too-keen to spend an unknown amount time on it all by herself.  That had been bad enough the first time.

"Yep, we got one certified time-space bridge, (possibly) guaranteed to send a bot to the time and place of their choosing."

"And where will Ssspider Lady go?"

She expected the answer to be an easy one.  Home, of course!  But was that time period, that future where the Autobots were on the brink of defeat, but so too were her own Radicals – was that place really home?  She had all of eternity at her command.   Why should she want to go there?

But where, then?

She knew.

If she could go anywhere, to any time, she would return to Archa 7, to the femme known as Elita One, to the friends of her past, the academy, home.  As much resentment as she felt for Optimus and Sentinel, she couldn't deny that she had been happiest when she was with them.  She wanted it back.  But could she have it?  _Could_ she change the past?  Perhaps not her own, but maybe a different Elita-One's?

And who else's pasts would change with it?  Would Optimus become the dignified Prime he was always meant to be?  He would be assigned a proper team, rather than a civilian vessel – he would never find himself shipwrecked on this hellish paradise.  Perhaps the two of them would smoke out Shockwave from his position in intelligence, prevent the need for any of Optimus's friends to be on that ship either.  And surely she herself wouldn't have been there to create Starscream's Predacon army out of Autobot protoforms – so would the war start at all?  How many things would change as a result of her actions, or was this present always destined to occur?

At the very least, it was worth a try, if only for the science, and if her bridge proved shoddy as it looked, well, at least she wouldn't die on this backwoods planet.

She turned to her massive companion, and flashed him a smile.  "I've got a hunch.  Come on, Waspinator."

With no more time wasted, she set her coordinates and booted up the bridge, and with Waspinator by her side, stepped through to an uncertain future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it. I never expected this to get so long, and yet here we are, some 200k words later. Goodness!
> 
> Anywho, I just want to thank all y'all for sticking with me all this way. Hopefully it was worth it. ^^;


End file.
